


Wonder What’s Wrong With Me

by FoxglovePrincess



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bondage, Character Death, Cunnilingus, Dark, Derogatory Language, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inspired by American Horror Story: Asylum, Manipulation, Masturbation, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multi, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Obsessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdated Medical Practice, Outdated Medical Terminology, Possessive Behavior, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sexual Harassment, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxglovePrincess/pseuds/FoxglovePrincess
Summary: A trip to Briarcliff Manor was not supposed to turn out like this.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader, Wanda Maximoff & Reader
Comments: 79
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new fic! I can’t say for sure, but I believe it will be a little shorter than my last one. But before jumping in, **PLEASE** read these disclaimers/warnings even though it’s a lot.
> 
> First, the idea for this fic formed when I read Nellblazer’s [Check Out Any Time You Like](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246858/chapters/61202380), it’s _amazing_. I highly recommend it if you enjoy MCU and AHS. They take a season of American Horror Story (Hotel) and recreate it with MCU characters. I’m doing something somewhat similar and using the AHS: Asylum season. 
> 
> Second, this fic is going to get **dark**. I have some situations planned out for future chapters that are unpleasant. If you are triggered by or can’t enjoy certain aspects of assault, involuntary medical procedures, or things of that nature, DO NOT READ THIS FIC. Please, take care of yourself.
> 
> Third, and possibly most important, this fic is going to delve into the world of mental institutions in the 1960s. Even with the deinstitutionalization movement gaining traction at this time, state mental hospitals were still _terrible_. The patients were treated worse than animals and would decline from a personal loss of hope and from neglect by the staff. This was due to many reasons, including lack of funding. This fic is not trying to disregard, make light of, dismiss, or provide false information about the tragedy of these institutions. However, I will be using AHS: Asylum as my primary source for this fic, because my own personal mental health could not take a deep research dive into mental institutions in this time period. I will, though, still be researching for the character to convey them and their behaviors as appropriately as I can (though my own bias and experiences may slightly influence my writing). My intention is to portray the mental health issues as best as I can.
> 
> Fourth, I have come to realize my reader characters somewhat straddle the line between OCs and readers, especially since I write in the first person. I give the readers backstories that fit within the story and time period. However, I am making efforts to keep my reader characters as physically neutral (appearance wise) as possible. If I make a mistake with this, _please_ let me know. 
> 
> Thank you for reading through those points. I know it’s a lot. Here’s a cookie for your troubles. 🍪
> 
> Enjoy! Tell what you think in the comments. If I’m missing any tags, let me know (I tried to get everything, but no one’s perfect).
> 
> UnBeta’d, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title taken from “Lithium” by Evanescence.
> 
> This work is not to be reposted on any other site without my explicit permission.

My hands wring together on my lap, waiting for my mother and father to exit the gloomy building. Briarcliff Manor is a well-known asylum for the insane, which is why I don’t understand why my parents decided to drive us here today.

Sweat gathers beneath my arms, cold and damp. My heart clenches in my chest as each minute passes without sign of my parents. When the doors to the building finally open, my eyes snap over.

My mother descends the steps, walking briskly to the car and opening the door beside me.

“Come along, dear, there’s someone I want you to meet,” she instructs, holding her hand out. The smile on her face strains her cheeks, but she keeps it plastered on her lips regardless.

Shuffling out of the back seat, my hand grasps hers tightly, sticking close to her side as she walks up the steps and into the hospital. My mouth dries, seeing patients with their blue linen uniforms and the orderlies and nurses in white escorting them through the foyer. A few security guards in grey uniforms walk past, their batons hanging threateningly from their belts.

A man with long brown hair sits on a bench beside the entrance, eyes icy and hard, staring at nothing, brow lowered over his eyes and a snarl on his lips. As I pass, his hand clenches over his knee, knuckles turning white.

A woman sits across the lobby, writhing on the ground, her limb locked in place by a straight jacket. A doctor steps over her, avoiding her chomping teeth as she wriggles toward his ankles.

An older man stands beside a pole, his head hitting it repeatedly before a woman in a nurse’s uniform rushes over to stop him. But that first clang still echoes in my mind as he’s led away.

My shoulder brushes against something. A small startled gasp escapes me, turning to see the man from the entrance waking just beside me. His long brown hair hides parts of his face, making it impossible to see anything except the downward turn of his lips. An apology spills from me, my hand reaching out to ensure that I didn’t hurt him, when my mothers hold on my wrist yanks me away.

She strides through the circular lobby, paying the patients no mind, a look of mild disdain marring her features. Fear begins to rise in my throat, burning like acid the further I’m led into the hospital. My mind works without cease, trying to fathom why we’re here—who my mother wants me to meet.

“Where are we going?” I whisper, following her ascent up the main staircase toward my father, who waits for us with a doctor in a white coat.

“Hush,” she chides.

I flinch at the harsh reprimand, but continue to watch my father.

He seems to be discussing something, the doctor taking notes on a clipboard and my father fiddling with the change he keeps in his pocket—a sure sign of agitation. He puffs on a cigarette in his other hand, running the free fingers through his thinning hair as he speaks. The doctor pushes his glasses up his nose and makes a comment, one which seems to displease my father. He sets his foot down, leaning toward the doctor and pointing at the ground between them.

My eyes dart away, knowing how my father can get—ever since he came back from fighting the Japanese, my mother would say, he hasn’t been the same. All I know is that angry man came into our home one day when I was nine years old and he is the only father I’ve ever known. 

As my eyes search for somewhere safe to land, a figure catches my eye at the bottom of the stairs. A woman stands amidst the chaos of patients and staff, her hair falling in reddish-brown waves around her face. Our eyes meet. She smiles, tender, out of place in such an unsettling environment. Her hand raises and she waves.

My own hand raises from my side to return the gesture, lips spread in a soft grin despite my rising anxiety. Needing to accept the friendly gesture, just for my own peace of mind. 

A tug on my arm redirects my attention back to my mother, a scowl drawing her features. A hushed apology leaves my lips while I follow her up the remaining steps.

My father greets my mother with crossed arms and a tapping foot. His face is lined with years of unpleasant expressions, a glower looking quite at home on his face. The doctor stands still beside him, his clipboard clutched in his hands. His eyes much kinder than my father’s, though he wears an expressionless mask.

My mother drops my hand and extracts herself from my hold. She steps beside my father, exchanging a brief whispered word. He nods in return, mouth pressed in a thin line.

Feeling exposed and vulnerable to the doctor’s inquisitive gaze, my feet shuffle until I press beside my mother once again, obscuring my frame with hers.

“Really,” she sighs, exasperation clear in her tone. She takes a moment, looking to my father again before inhaling deeply. “Dear, this is Dr. Banner, he is the director of this facility.” My eyes meet warm brown ones for a second, but I drop my gaze as my mother continues. “You’ll be under his care now.”

It feels like a slap to the cheek. The blood drains from my face, terror sinking claws deep into my guts. My head shakes from side to side, refusing to believe my mother’s statement. It can’t be true. I search for the joke, look to them for the punchline. But their faces—my _parent’s_ faces—are cold and withdrawn, like I am simply a speck of dirt on their sole. Bile rises in my throat and I fall to my knees before a potted plant, expelling my meager breakfast into the soil.

“Be well, dear,” my mother says, patting me twice on the back and retreating down the stairs. My father harrumphs and stomps after her without a word.

Tears spring to my eyes, hands clutched white around the ceramic of the pot. My body begins to shake, though my limbs are frozen, locked in position on the floor.

The doctor crouches beside me and I sob, leaning away from his presence. His hand reaches out to rest on my shoulder, feeling it shake beneath his touch.

“You’ll be guided through the intake process, then you’ll be introduced to the doctor assigned to handling your treatment,” he explains, tone even and somewhat sympathetic. He sighs my name, a pitiful sound. “I know this is a lot for you to understand, but your behaviors indicate a serious illness. Briarcliff will do its utmost to care for you.”

He pulls at my hands, detaching them from the plant. His grip is firm but gentle as he holds my arms against my chest—as if he expects a violent reaction in response. That’s probably something that happens frequently enough. My stomach drops to my toes and roils at the thought.

An orderly approaches, a man in his white uniform, who harshly grabs my upper arm and heaves me toward the stairs. I follow after him obediently. Resistance escaping my mind as shock sits heavy on my shoulders.

The intake process is not pleasant. Stripped of my clothes and pounded with freezing cold water against an unforgiving wall. Pinched and manhandled as if I were a living doll. The treatment inhumane. All with men leering at my naked flesh while the nurses treat me. My tears become a continual stream down my cheeks until I’m shoved into a room with the door slammed behind me.

My knees skid across the floor, the skin burning with the friction. Footsteps approach, soft and steady until they stand right before me. A hand, strong and masculine, holds itself out, a kind gesture.

Looking up, sight still blurred by tears, I hesitate to move. My hands ball into fists on my knees and clutch the hem of my blue linen uniform. I avert my gaze, humiliated and bereft of dignity. The silence hangs in the air, interrupted by my heavy, shaking breaths. And the man observes me.

As my sobs calm from the onset of exhaustion, he crouches low to the ground, fingers pinching my chin and angling my head back toward him. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and quietly dabs away the tears spilling from my eyes.

“There we go,” he murmurs under his breath, his warm breath blowing over my cheeks as he keeps me trapped in his gaze. “That’s better.” A small smile tilts his lips, warm yet unreadable. “You’re a fragile one, aren’t you?”

His smile spreads as I continue to calm and, able to see his visage clearly, my heart lurches in my chest. Such a handsome face—blonde hair and a strong bone structure, blue eyes deep as a lake in summer. He looks like he could be a film star. I swallow thickly, heat blooming up my neck and face from thinking such a thing.

His eyes flash as they scan over my crumpled form. His warm hands delicately cradle my forearms, guiding me to stand and walk to a chair set before his sturdy wood desk. He skirts around the side and plants himself in his seat, opening a file and scanning the documents before him.

“I’m sorry about Brock,” he says weaving his fingers under his chin. “He tends to get too enthusiastic about welcoming the new female patients.” His head shakes with scorn. “I’ve talked to Dr. Banner about this multiple times. I’m sure it will be dealt with.”

I can’t focus on what he’s said, head still swimming with everything that’s happened. My teeth sink into my lower lip, biting back my question, feeling a sob work it’s way up from my chest. The man cocks his head to the side.

“Do you even know why you’re here?” he asks, words soft, concerned.

My head shakes, hands starting to tremble. My eyes focus on the edge of his desk closest to me. He sighs, an irritated sound.

“Of course not,” he mutters under his breath. My eyes flit up to his, his face immediately smoothing the aggravated crease between his brows as our gazes lock. His expression turns friendly as he explains, “Your parents brought some very concerning behaviors to our attention—your lack of friends or any kind of social life, you resistance to leaving your home, your episodes of distress or apathy, your nervous personality, past attempts at ending your life. Your parents decided that they were ill-equipped to care for you, which led them to committing you here.”

My mouth gapes open in shock, tears well in my eyes. Swallowing down the sick feeling building within me, I raise my gaze, ready to dispute the claims against me, a small spark of panic igniting at the insinuation that I would attempt to harm myself.

“But that’s not true. And I’m not a minor,” I insist, my words stilted, incredulous and a little desperate. “They can’t—” The words choke off in my throat.

“Unfortunately, you were deemed unable to make decisions for yourself in this matter. After a hefty donation from your parents, Dr. Banner and a judge thought it best you be remanded to our care.” His brows knit together in a show of compassion. He stands from his desk, coming back around to my side. “I’ll be overseeing your treatment during your stay at Briarcliff.” His hand lands lightly on my shoulder, followed by a soft squeeze meant for comfort. “I’ll help you, I promise.” His head dips, searching for my eyes, to catch my gaze and show his sincerity.

My mind races with thoughts, coming to grips with my situation—realizing I’m not getting out of here, possibly ever. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?” I ask, quiet as foreboding seizes me.

“Nothing is wrong with you, sweetheart,” he insists, tipping my head up to look at him. “You’re just sick and need someone to help take care of you. I’ll figure out what to do. You can trust me.”

My teeth gnaw at my cheek, puzzling through this betrayal from the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally. Shucking me away like a manure to rot within the walls of this institution.

The man keeps his touch gentle, though his fingers move to brush a strand of damp hair away from my cheek. My heart flutters at the contact, drawing me back to the moment, the warmth that emanates from him. With everything so bleak, a chill hanging constant in the air, I barely resist the urge to fall into his arms and beg him to wrap me up until the cold can’t touch me anymore.

“What should I call you, doctor?” I ask, taking advantage of the opportunity to once again lower my gaze when his hand withdraws. My fingers smooth out the wrinkles forming in the fabric of my uniform, grasping for one ounce of control when I feel like I’m drowning in an endless sea.

“Dr. Rogers,” he replies with a proud smile.

My head bobs in a nod, eyes unfocused as my thoughts drift away once more. Dr. Rogers’ hand sneaks under my chin again, tilting my gaze up and waiting until my attention centers on him. His head cocks to the side, surveying my face with professional assessment.

“Interesting,” he mutters to himself. The corner of his lips tilt downward for a brief moment before lifting back up into his convivial grin. “I’m sure it won’t take me too long to find the proper course of treatment for you. But in the meantime, you can acclimate to the daily routine of Briarcliff.”

Dr. Rogers stands straight from the desk, prompting me to stand with him, our bodies so close together, the heat radiates from him. My fingers itch to reach out and cling to the material of his shirt, the blue checked button up tempting me as it stretches across his chest.

I fist my hands in my uniform instead, waiting for the next instruction. Berating myself in my head at giving attention to the brief, inappropriate thought.

“I’ll lead you to the Day Room. There are activities for patients there to pass the time between treatments.”

His hand cups my elbow, turning me toward the door and guiding me out of his office. We pass by many doors, Dr. Rogers giving me an abbreviated tour of the various treatment rooms and wards within the asylum.

Other staff pass us—doctors, nurses, and orderlies with patients in tow. I shrink behind Dr. Rogers on instinct. When he notices, his arm wraps around me, maneuvering my body and forcing me to walk next to him. He retracts his hold as we walk side by side, but I press close beside him, fingers lightly clutching at the sleeve of his doctor’s coat.

“Here we are, the Day Room,” he announces standing outside a set of open doors. His hand lands on the small of my back, gently nudging me forward. “Go ahead. The others shouldn’t bother you.”

Releasing the fabric of his coat, I wrap my arms around my middle, shuffling a few steps into the room and turning back to glance at him, to make sure he’s still there. He nods at me, a gesture to encourage me forward.

When I glance back again after another few steps, he prompts, “Go ahead. You’ll be fine.” A placid smile sits on his lips as he watches me continue on.

I step further into the room, fighting the itch to look over my shoulder once again. But it doesn’t last long as I continue walking, glances shot over my shoulder, seeing him standing off to the side of the door, still observing me, looking pleased.

The room is gray with dusty windows above and around that let in dull natural light. The few plants in the corners of the room look wilted and sad. The notes of Ray Charles singing _You Are My Sunshine_ echo around the room, accompanied by quiet noises from the patients as they drift around the room, directionless, like ghosts.

“You’re new.” The voice startles me and I hop back a step at the sound.

It’s the woman from earlier, the one who waved from the bottom of the stairs. She greets me with a kind smile.

“I’m sorry,” she adds with a comforting hand placed on my arm. “I didn’t realize you would be so jumpy.” Her foreign accent adds a charming cadence to her voice, the syllables rolling off her tongue. And the tension eases from my shoulders slightly.

She seems friendly, and I welcome it, despite the instinct to hide until no one can ever find me again. Yet I stay frozen. My lips press together, eyes dropping to my feet as I wait for her to explain why she’s talking to me.

“Come, sit with me.” Her hand wraps more firmly around my arm, dragging me toward a worn and drab little couch set beside a coffee table. “I’m Wanda.” At her introduction, she pushes me to sit on the couch and sets herself beside me. Her eyes scan over my face, looking for some response. Though I’m unsure if I give one, my eyes flitting around the room, distracted by the other patients and their activities. “You know I’m not going to hurt you.” She pauses, once again waiting. After a moment, she clicks her tongue, leaning away slightly and cocking her head to the side. “You seem to be in good hands with Dr. Rogers.”

I turn back to her, curious. Her eyes are glancing at the door. In the doorway, Dr. Rogers turns away, a trace of a frown drawing his features.

“So, why are you here?” she asks, focusing back on me.

“My parents,” I murmur, hands kneading together in my lap. “They say I need help, I guess. Dr. Rogers says he’ll need time to figure out what I need.”

“Don’t worry about it too much. I didn’t get a diagnosis either,” Wanda scoffs, shoulder shrugging. Her body leans into the flat cushions of the couch as she turns to the side. Her fingers pick at loose threads along the pillow seams. “I don’t even really belong here.”

My head cocks to the side, confusion tilting my brow. “You don’t?”

She sighs, a long, drawn-out sound. “I used to work for Tony Stark—the CEO of Stark Industries. When I rejected his advances, he sent me here.” Bitterness coats her tone, anger simmering below the surface.

“He can do that?” I ask, mouth agape at her confession.

“A man with enough power, connections, and influence can do anything,” she replies through gritted teeth. “Luckily, I have a brother who’s working to get me out.”

I sigh, trying to bring a smile to my lips, but failing. “My parents just didn’t want to deal with me, I guess,” I quietly confess, unable to suppress the dejected tone my voice takes.

The anger slips away from Wanda’s face, her hand reaching out to cover mine. She squeezes gently, and for a moment a small, genuine smile flickers over my lips.

“You’ll be fine,” she assures, patting my hand. “You follow the routine, you stay in line, don’t cause a stir, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.” Her voice drops lower, leaning in to whisper her next piece of advice. “Just don’t find yourself on the wrong side of an orderly or a guard. They tend to be rough, cruel in their retribution.”

I nod, gulping down the spike of fear that triggers with her advice. I can do that, I’ve spent my entire life doing what was expected of me. Staying on someone’s good side is instinct. Wanda smiles, her attention turning to a pack of cards on the table.

While she shuffles, the atmosphere of the Day Room soaks in until I start to feel settled. Though legitimate comfort is too much to ask.

The weight of a gaze sends the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Looking around the room, I notice the man from before—the angry one who sat by the entrance, who I bumped into on accident. He leans against the wall, face expressionless but eyes intent on me.

A nervous smile spreads across my lips, hoping that he will take the friendly acknowledgment and move his focus somewhere else. Instead, he stalks forward like a predator, head cocked to the side.

My head whips around, turning back to Wanda, praying that his path will not cross by us. When minutes pass, and I gather up enough courage to look around, he’s nowhere to be seen. A strange, mixed sense of disappointment and relief washes over me.

Wanda and I sit as she begins to deal a game of cards onto the table. I shake with a shiver, the cold of the hospital gripping me down to my bones. My hands feeling like icicles in my lap.

“Are you alright?” Wanda asks, concern prominent on her features.

“Just cold,” I murmur, rubbing my hands along my arms in the hopes of bringing warmth back into my limbs. The thin cotton uniform does nothing to insulate my body heat and the longer I sit in the Day Room, despite the wide windows and shining sun, the colder I seem to become.

Wanda nods in understanding, explaining, “We can get you one of the women’s cardigans. You just have to—”

She swallows the rest of her words, her body dropping back to the couch from her position hovering above the cushions, halfway to standing.

And all because the man stands in front of me, holding out a thick grey sweater in offering. He says nothing, but expectation gleams in his eyes as he watches me look between him, the garment, and Wanda. Wanda swallows hard and her wide eyes turn to me. She subtly shakes her head, but I can’t bring myself to spurn the generous gesture.

“Thank you,” I say reaching out to take the sweater from the man’s hand. “It’s really kind of you to bring me this. I-I’m sorry for bumping into you, earlier.” Fingering the knit, I pick off a pill in the yarn, avoiding his gaze.

The man stays silent, waiting until I wrap the cardigan over my shoulders and slide my arms through the sleeves before nodding once and walking away.

The oversized sweater would fit a man’s frame better, the sleeves just slightly too long and bulky, and the torso swamping my figure by a size or two. But it’s warm, cozy, and reminds me of something my grandfather once wore.

“You just took that sweater from James Barnes,” Wanda mutters, shock lacing her tone.

“Does that mean something?” I ask, worry settling over me. My gaze snaps to her, worry creasing my brow.

“I don’t know,” she replies, words strained. She glances over her shoulder in the direction James walked off. “He’s terrifying, breaks into a violent rampage at the drop of a hat. But he never talks, never even acknowledges anyone unless his hand wraps around their throat. And yet,” her hand gestures to the sweater, “he thought to give you that.”

“Why is he here?” I ask, unsure if I want to know the answer.

“He went to war and came back a different man,” Wanda says, leaning forward, her voice dropping low. I nod, brow scrunched in contemplation. My lips part on a remark, but she continues, “He killed fifty-four people two years ago, all up and down the eastern seaboard. But he was judged mentally unsound, so they locked him up here.”

“Oh,” I gulp, pulling the sleeves of the sweater over my hands. Words escape my grasp as I try to form a comment.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Wanda assures, though she doesn’t seem to sure of her pronouncement.

Instead, she distracts me with a game of cards, teaching me how to play gin rummy and pointing out the unstated rules of Briarcliff—who I should avoid for my own sake or theirs, the daily routine and how to handle the transition to my new normal.

The afternoon stretches into evening, and an orderly escorts me to my room in the women’s ward—a cell with dingy concrete walls splashed with dark, foreboding stains and an uncomfortable bed that looks like it saw better days at the dawn of time. The door bolts shut behind me and I’m bathed in darkness. Goosebumps break out over my skin despite the warmth trapped in my cardigan. I swallow thickly and turn to my bed.

Sleep does not come easy. Screams and thumps in the night interrupt my slumber and jolt terror down my spine. Sleeping under the itchy blanket, restless frustration mounts and builds until I sit up and punch at my pillow with broken sobs. Tears fall silently down my cheeks as I wait for the morning and whatever it will bring.

A breakfast of sloppy gruel awaits by my door, pushed under the slot for me to consume. It tastes of ash and feels like glue sticking to my teeth, but I eat it, if only for the possibility that it might give me strength for the rest of the day. I choke back the retches, swallowing it down until my plate is clean. The glass of lukewarm water offers little reprieve, but at least it washes some of the taste off my tongue.

The guards make their rounds, unlocking the doors of each cell and taking the count. Wanda stands just outside her door, a few feet down the hall. She catches my eye with a sympathetic smile and nods in greeting. I lower my eyes, feeling the despair already setting in, the walls of Briarcliff sucking away all vitality like a rabid vampire.

The schedule for the day allows for free activity time and shifts in the Briarcliff’s bakery—making molasses bread with the other patients. Kneading the dough is supposed to be therapeutic, and I must admit the repetitive motion helps take away the dark and dreary thoughts ricocheting around my skull.

Working in the bakery, I’ve found some semblance of my usual optimism. Despite the callousness of my parent’s actions, I’ve halted the devastating downward spiral sparked by their dismissal of me. It’s a small victory, and tenuous. But I cling to it with both hands.

It helps that I’ve made another friend to take my mind off the darkness, ready to pounce again and drag me under.

The woman, Gertie, sits beside me, kneading the bread and making conversation as best as she can. My mother would call her a pinhead, like the ones she’s seen at circuses and freak shows. But Gertie talks to me about flowers and animals. She’s sweet and friendly, seemingly unbothered by her depressing surroundings.

When Wanda joins us in the bakery after her appointment with Dr. Strange, she sits beside me, tossing an apron on and plunging her hands into the dough. Though her eyes are duller than before, she keeps her disposition cheery, fighting off the hopelessness just as much as me.

She’s quick to regale us with tales of her family—racing through the fields with her brother, making meals with her mother, and reading with her father. Gertie’s eyes shine as she listens, adding her brief, exuberant comments.

I have nothing to add to the conversation, so I listen. Letting Wanda share her life and feeling quiet pangs of jealousy gnaw deep in my belly. My mother and father were never so affectionate. And yesterday shattered the illusion that our family was happy.

My name breaks our little bubble of work and chatter. My head turns to acknowledge the call. Brock, the orderly, stands waiting, glaring.

“Yes, sir?” I ask, standing and wiping the flour and dough from my hands on my apron.

“Dr. Rogers wants to see you,” he barks, “let’s go.” His finger twirls in the air in a gesture of irritable impatience.

I pull my apron over my head quickly with a nervous grin to Wanda. She nods her head, wary glance cast toward the man in white before restarting a quiet conversation with Gertie. My stomach sinks.

We walk silently through the halls, Brock tossing comments to the other staff as we pass by. I pay it no mind, but can’t help feeling bad for the nurses he harasses with his words and wandering hands. My unease builds as I wonder if, perhaps, he might turn his unwanted attention to me.

The hallway where the doctors keep their offices is an unanticipated turn. My assumption subverted, knowing the medical suites and treatment rooms lie in the opposite direction near the infirmary.

My eyes glance around frantically, looking for another soul. My heart patters in my chest, accelerating as scenarios form in my head. Surely if Dr. Rogers wanted to see me, it would be to begin treatment. Did Dr. Rogers even send for me at all?

Nerves jump up my spine at the thought. My hands tremble, cradled before my chest as if to protect myself. Ice cold dread overwhelms me, my teeth gritting to stop them chattering. James’ sweater might as well be made from tissue for all the good it does to keep me warm in this moment.

Brock stops before the door to Dr. Rogers’ office, pounding on the wood. A muffled ‘come in’ sounds from inside—familiar, expected. Relief crashes over me, air filling my lungs to capacity while my anxiety drips away. My hand reaches up, rubbing my forehead, releasing the last of the built-up tension with a huff of air. Brock shoves me toward the door with an annoyed grunt.

I stumble forward, turning the knob and entering the office. Dr. Rogers rises from his seat behind his desk with a winning smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I missed any tags, let me know and I’ll add them! 
> 
> 💜
> 
> Also, if you want to drop by and say ‘hi’ or wanna have a chat, here’s my [Tumblr!](http://foxgloveprincess.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Rogers has a diagnosis and a treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the Tag Update!  
> Tags Added: Medical Inaccuracies, Vaginal Fingering, Abuse of Power, and Bondage (there are some restraints used in this chapter)
> 
> Welcome to the next chapter. This story is gonna take me a bit longer between each chapter, just FYI. And I’m also working on a fic for a friend’s challenge over on Tumblr, so that’ll delay the next chapter.
> 
> Also, there may be historical inaccuracies in the details, but I try to at least keep the atmosphere fairly set in the setting of the 1960s. 
> 
> But Enjoy! I’m glad so many people are interested in this fic.

“I took a long look at your file yesterday after I left you in the Day Room,” Dr. Rogers explains, preparing me a hot cup of tea and handing it over. He takes a seat in the chair next to mine instead of behind his desk and my curiosity sparks to life.

My eyes drop to the mug in my hand, steam drifting from the cup and brushing against my face. My head bobs when I take a sip, silently dreading what he has to say.

“I was also able to look through some medical books, and I think I’ve found your condition.” His hand reaches out, brushing over my knee to catch my attention. He cranes his head to the side, searching my face with his eyes. “You may have heard of it,” he continues cautiously, “but it’s my belief that you suffer from hysteria.”

My eyes widen, choking slightly on the hot drink. Dr. Rogers’ chair scrapes across the floor as he scoots an inch closer to me, ensuring I’m alright. I nod my head, gripping the cup tight, trying to keep it from shaking in my trembling grasp. Steady hands remove the cup from me, placing it with a quiet sound on the corner of his desk.

My pulse pounds in my ears and I fight against it, hoping to calm myself with deep breaths—Dr. Rogers’ touch helping immensely.

“It’s very treatable,” he assures, thumb rubbing small circles on my knee in an attempt to soothe my racing heart. “But I thought you should know.”

My torso bows forward over my knees, breaths shuddering in my lungs, head starting to feel woozy. His hand moves away from my knee, finding the small of my back and continuing the massaging circles. My eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the room, finding focus on the tender caress to anchor myself.

Minutes tick by as the diagnosis sinks in, my head spinning with information. Relief sparkles briefly, a glistening second of joy that part of me rejoices in—a possibility for answers. But the other half of me weeps at my lost hope. I actually belong at Briarcliff—not somehow placed in the hospital’s care by mistake, that last avenue away from this place vanishing before my eyes.

I exhale a silent, shaky puff of air, gathering my wits. Rising up to look at the doctor, my teeth gnaw on the inside of my cheek, swallowing the whimpers that sit at the back of my throat, clear signals of my distress.

“What is the treatment?” I ask quietly.

“Doctors have recently found shock therapy to help in cases of hysteria,” he replies, hand warm, smoothing up and down my back as he speaks.

My breath hitches at the pronouncement, terror crashing over me like a wave. Shock therapy. Just the thought sends ice shooting through my veins. Wanda had mentioned it yesterday, briefly, a haunted look in her eyes—warning me of the blinding pain, the muscle spasms and cramps, the memory loss.

Dr. Rogers’ arm wraps around my waist, dragging me closer toward him until the legs of our chairs bump together. The warm weight of his arm, like an affectionate embrace, keeps me present, away from the awaiting spiral into dread.

“Personally, I have found that shock therapy isn’t as effective in some patients. So I’ve decided to try the more,” he pauses for a second to find the right word, “historical method of treating your illness. It worked wonders in its day. Unless you would prefer the more modern therapy?” My head shakes vehemently, searching the doctor’s gaze for his understanding. His eyes are clear and bright meeting mine, compassionate and caring. “That’s what I thought. You don’t have to worry about that, then.”

Profound gratitude overcomes me. A sob bursts past my lips. My hands reach out, grasping his, thanks spilling from my lips as relieved tears track down my cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, brushing away my tears and shushing my sobs. “I promised I would take care of you, didn’t I? I always keep my word.” A small smile quirks the corner of his lips, a content look accompanied by something else unreadable flashing in his eyes.

I wipe at my cheeks, sniffing to clear myself of the residual tears. My sight starts to go a bit fuzzy, my consciousness retreating inward to process what’s been said and the emotions coursing through me.

Dr. Rogers draws me back easily with the sound of my name. His mellow tone breaks me out of the fog like a lighthouse breaking through a storm.

Blinking back to the moment, I shake my head of the lingering daze. His eyes shine as he holds out his hand with a soft invitation to follow him. Placing my palm over his, he squeezes my fingers gently, guiding me up from my seat and toward the office door.

We walk down the hall, Dr. Rogers striding confidently with me in tow. His grasp on my hand firm, but lenient, holding onto me as if he were escorting me to a sock hop instead of a medical treatment.

I stare at the back of his head, following his steps, wonder blooming in my stomach as it swoops. The way he moves, the way he cares—there’s something special about Dr. Rogers. My free hand pats my stomach, urging the warm, sappy sensation away. But the more I look at him, the more it spreads until I feel as if I’ve swallowed a syrupy sweet hive of bees.

Everything buzzes through me until he stops our progress in front of a door. The room he brings me to opens on a medical office, sterile and simple, the same as any general practitioner’s. The chair in the middle of the room, however, stands out like a looming guillotine.

And, just like that, everything stills.

Hesitating at the door, Dr. Rogers’ notices my resistance and turns completely to me. His hands find my jaw, cradling my face. His brow lowers slightly, concern deep in his irises.

“Remember, I’m here. You have nothing to worry about.” His kind eyes darken slightly with the fluorescent lights illuminating the room behind him. Trepidation pricks at my tear ducts. I try to swallow the lump of fear in my throat and blink back the moisture in my eyes.

“Would you like to hear more about the treatment before we begin?” he asks, thumb brushing my cheek.

“Yes, please,” I answer, nodding and grasping at his right wrist.

He hums in concession, a sound of understanding, directing me into the room and locking the door behind us.

A counter and cabinets sit off to the side of the room, medical equipment and a screen placed against the opposite walls. But I can’t look away, locked on the cognac brown leather of the exam chair and the strange handles jutting out from the front. My panicked eyes flash toward Dr. Rogers.

He gestures smoothly, prompting me to sit. I obey reluctantly, perching right on the edge of the seat, heart thumping nervously in my chest.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he coos, hand pushing on my shoulder, urging me to slide back on the seat. “This is just a chair we use for gynecological exams and obstetrics, when they’re needed.”

My hands fold on my lap, eyes darting to the two leather covered appendages on the front, realization dawning as to what they’re for. My ankles tuck closer to the base of the chair, glimpsing the shiny buckles and straps attached to the stirrups. Dr. Rogers stays patient, hand rubbing over my shoulder until, incrementally, the tension loosens.

“We won’t begin until you’re ready.”

His thumb brushes over my uniform along my collarbone. I nod, avoiding his gaze yet reveling in the softness of his attention. He hums, a pensive sound.

“Hysteria is a complicated illness that we still don’t fully understand,” he begins to explain. “It is often associated with female patients. The balance of the body’s emotions can sometimes alter actions or cause distress. It can lead to nervousness, depressive episodes, mood swings, and other hazardous behaviors, much like you’ve exhibited.”

He steps to stand before the chair, pressing his form close to my knees and resting his hands on my legs. His touch relaxes me as he speaks, my brain floating to a quiet, comfortable space while listening to the dulcet tones of his voice.

“The treatments I read about in historical accounts found that stimulating certain responses from female patients can correct these imbalances, for a time. It is my intention to perform the same kind of stimulation to encourage a hysterical paroxysm.” 

His fingers begin to precisely knead my flesh, nudging the uniform covering my thighs higher. The resulting coolness of the room on my skin jerks me out of my distracted state, an embarrassed heat filling my cheeks. My hands brush awkwardly at the fabric, hoping to cover my modesty.

Dr. Rogers retracts his touch immediately, moving beside me, fingers tracing over my forearm toward my hand. “I’ll have to restrain you,” he whispers lowly, apologizing as he delicately takes my wrist and places it in the cuff on the arm of the chair.

I gulp down my alarmed squeak as he does so, intent to trust him despite the sudden onslaught of apprehension.

“I promise, sweetheart, I’ll make this as painless as possible,” he assures, maneuvering around me to cuff my other wrist.

Pulling at my wrists on instinct, I try to escape, hoping to find some give in the leather restraints. There’s none. And that awakens something terrified in my mind.

My wide eyes dart to find the doctor’s, hoping for some kind of solace. He responds instantly, shushing me with a tilted brow and small shake of his head, brushing stray strands of hair away from my face until my struggling desists. My chest heaves long, even breaths, clinging to the last threads of my composure.

“I’ll need to remove your underwear in order to perform the procedure,” he informs, keeping fixed eye contact while he finds the elastic of my panties under my uniform and slips them off. He tucks them away, out of sight, returning his touch to my legs. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

My pulse thrums in my ears, nerves flutter from my belly to my throat, feeling like I’ll shatter apart at any second from the stress. I force air through my lips, still fighting against the blind fear creeping toward my chest. The sight of Dr. Rogers’ serene, sympathetic expression helping to prevent it—barely. His hands drift to my knees, his form bending slightly as he places each leg into the cradle of its stirrup.

The feel of his fingers against my thighs shoots a shiver down my spine, my limbs trembling beneath his grip. Dr. Rogers takes a moment, eyes lingering on my face, tracing patterns along my skin before locking my legs in place, buckles clinking.

He tries to help me, coax me into a state of relaxation, still. His movements slow, precise, gentle. Yet nothing stops the cold sweat gathering under my arms, fear washing over me. Riotous emotions clash under my skin, an uneasy pit hollowing my gut. I appreciate his tenderness, his care as he tries to make me comfortable. Knowing it’s past the point of no return.

“This may feel invasive, sweetheart,” he confesses, brow knit with guilt. “But you know I’m only doing what needs to be done.”

I swallow thickly. Words aren’t possible, trapped in my chest behind a scream. Instead, my lips press together while I nod, accepting his statement and anticipating the worst.

He takes a moment, assessing my face before he slowly separates my legs, pushing the stirrups wide apart, leaving me exposed and bare under the bright lights, every intimate part of me open to his gaze.

His eyes flutter closed. A long, slow, deep breath expanding his lungs before he clears his throat and steps forward between my spread thighs.

“Have you ever experienced sexual pleasure?” he asks, voice slightly husky and low. “A boyfriend or self-exploration?”

I blink for a moment, caught off-guard by the question. The roar of fear quiets to a hushed buzz in seconds. Instead, heat blooms on my cheeks, burning up to my ears. My lips part, speechless, as I gather my thoughts in a second of shocked silence.

“N-no,” I reply, shaking my head, “not really. My mother didn’t approve of it. Said only naughty girls touch themselves like that. That they went to hell. But-but I’ve felt—” I swallow down the words, refusing to reveal anything further. My body twists, trying to close my legs and escape from this vulnerable position.

Dr. Rogers places a hand on my arm, running a palm over my bicep. The other hand lands on my leg, his thumb tracing shapes on my inner thigh. His eyes glint in the overhead light, but his face remains compassionate and calm.

“This might be intense, then,” he admits, cheek twitching with the hint of a lopsided smile. “But always remember, I’ll take care of you.” His eyes bore into me, locking me in his gaze like a deer in headlights.

I don’t know what prompts me to say it, but my mouth parts, the words spilling out, “You’ll take care of me.” My back stiffly finds the chair back again, reclining and waiting for it to begin.

“Are you ready?”

“Y-yes.” My eyes softly close, head tilting to the side.

A minute ticks by, the cool air of the room brushing against my most intimate area. But nothing happens.

A warm hand guides my head back forward as he states, “I can’t begin until you open your eyes, sweetheart. I need to be able to assess your state of mind while I do this.”

Squeezing my eyes tight for a second, I gather up my courage and allow them to flutter open, seeing Dr. Rogers’ questioning gaze.

“I’m-I’m ready,” I state again, keeping my stare firmly placed on the collar of his shirt, catching the bob of his throat when he swallows.

“Alright.”

Both of his hands alight on my knees, slowly moving toward my center. Fingers rubbing along the soft skin of my inner thighs, he forces a breath out of his lips. The faintest brush of it hits me, my hips fidgeting under his touch. Eyes concentrating on the apex of my thighs, he glances up while his fingers drift closer and closer toward my core.

My hips shift on the seat again, uncertainty clouding my thoughts, on the verge of panic. Dr. Rogers presses his body closer between my legs, caging me in the chair until he blocks out some of the overhead light.

“Concentrate on how you feel,” he coaches, hands finding their goal, playing with my folds.

A pleasant sensation, like tingling, begins to to radiate from where he touches me, anticipation building deep. For what, I’m not entirely sure, but when my hips begin to lift toward his fingers, searching for more of that strange feeling, a firmer touch, a smile spreads across the doctor’s face.

“That’a girl,” he praises, eyes dropping down to stare at my exposed sex.

A strange excited delight plays across his features, his fingers exploring, prodding at my entrance and gathering the arousal there. His digits move more easier then, finding a point of pleasure and circling it. A surprised gasp escapes me, head tilting, seeking Dr. Rogers’ face, finding it drawn in concentration.

“This is your clitoris, commonly known as a clit or clitty. Many women find sexual pleasure through touching it,” he explains, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. His mouth hangs open, the huffs of his breath caressing my cheek. “The initial process might be a long one,” he states firmly, our eyes locking. I huff a shuddering breath, struggling to pay attention, focus falling on his plush lips as they form around his words. “To find the best way to treat your hysteria, I’ll have to know the best ways to induce hysterical paroxysms. And depending on the severity of your condition, you may need this treatment on a very frequent basis.”

I nod, the information passing through my mind like water through a sieve. And he keeps tracing those wonderful circles around that little bundle of nerves, playfully darting away to trace through my slick lower lips and returning in a teasing dance.

Desire settles into my bones, accompanied by a foreign feeling of wanton lust. The tingles build into a heat, the deep arousal aching deep within my belly. His fingers flick over my clit before drifting down, finding my entrance once more and pressing a thick finger inside.

I hiss at the intrusion, tensing at the new sensation, trying to pull my hips away from it. Dr. Rogers’ brow furrows, his eyes flitting over my face. He coos placations and praise, hoping to calm me. As his other hand finds my clit and begins to pay it attention, he moves his finger, thrusting it and petting at my inner walls.

“Dr. Rogers, I don’t—” A whimper chokes off my thought as a spark of pleasure sizzles up my spine.

The doctor continues his ministrations, keeping his eyes roaming over my figure, watching as my hips writhe, rolling with his thrusts. Something begins to tighten and ache inside me, growing with every delicious touch.

My lips part, trying to force out the words perched at the tip of my tongue, the uncertainty consuming me whole.

Dr. Rogers hushes me before I can, his body curling over mine to blockout any outside distraction, until he is the only thing within my world.

“Let go, sweetheart. Trust me,” he implores, voice pitched low.

Looking into his eyes, my heart lurches, his pupils blown black, a deep desire staring back at me. It’s like an abyss, endless and dark, captivating.

A whine titters in the back of my throat, that tension tightening in my belly. My hips buck up, the buckles on my legs jingling.

He slides his finger out of me completely, pushing it back in with another. My breath hitches.

The stretch—it’s near indescribable, a fullness that I have never experienced. Yet, somehow, it feels right, good. My eyelids flutter, threatening to close, completely overwhelmed. Teeth sinking into my lower lip, my body vibrates with arousal. The sound of my dripping lust squishing with each plunge of his fingers into me. My breaths pant from my lungs, heart fluttering in my chest.

Dr. Rogers watches, entranced by my reactions, his ministrations hastening, searching for something more.

My back arches off the chair, wrists jerking against the restraints. I want— _need_ —to reach out toward Dr. Rogers, sink my nails into him for stability, for sanity. Because I am Icarus, flying far too close to the sun, can feel the heat all over my body. But instead, I float higher and higher, a noise of distress piercing the air.

“Give in to the feeling. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” Dr, Rogers insists once more.

Head shaking, the syllables of a refusal sit heavy on my tongue. He withdraws one hand from my folds to delicately cradle my face. My nails bite into my palms, anything to hold back from the consuming fire licking through my veins. Yet he doesn’t let me, grinding the heel of his palm into my clit.

My world bursts apart at the seams, engulfing me in bliss. My hips undulate, following the continuing motions of the doctor’s hand, his touch electric as ecstasy envelops my senses. A cry bursts past my lips, my toes curling and my thighs quivering uncontrollably.

Dr. Rogers modifies his touch, withdrawing his fingers, but petting over my lower lips to soothe me through my experience.

The burst fades into a satisfying warmth, my body melting against the chair, limp and pliant. His hand leaves my cheek, a swipe of my slick arousal left in its place.

With a sheepish smile, he grabs a towel from the cabinet and wets it at the sink, wiping the residue away. One hand returns between my legs, rubbing against my mound with an appreciative touch.

“You did very well,” he praises with a smile, tossing away the towel in the laundry bin. “Took to the treatment much easier than expected.”

My chest rises and falls, mouth gaping open to drag in as much air as possible, tongue swiping out over my lips to wet the dry flesh. His eyes follow the movement, pupils still blown wide like a shark. He’s reluctant to retract his hand, keeping it against me even as he halts his movement.

We stare at each other in silence, me catching my breath and him observing. My restraints around my wrists clink, some instinctual part of me attempting to reach out to hold him.

The sound snaps Dr. Rogers out of his stupor. His hand withdraws from my center, eyes dropping to gaze hungrily at his glistening fingers. Heat blooms in my cheeks, head tilting away to avoid his reaction, his possible judgment.

The sink turns on again, accompanied by a muted groan and quiet pop. The water splashes as he washes his hands, the clean smell of soap drifting into my nose.

I don’t watch, perfectly content to let my mind collapse in on itself and puzzle out what just happened. A hysterical paroxysm. That’s what he had said I needed. Was that the sensation I felt?

Girls often talked about their boyfriends back in school, overhearing their hushed conversations as I walked past them in hallways or sat beside them in class. They would describe their experiences with necking and heavy petting like it was reaching through the veil to heaven.

I shift, fidgeting in the chair, reflecting on the euphoria I just experienced. Surely this was something similar.

Dr. Rogers returns, dragging my attention back to the present, wiping his hands off on another towel before setting it aside to undo my restraints, starting with my arms before unfastening my legs.

His touch lingers on my limbs, rubbing over the red marks left by the leather cuffs. He glares at the abraded skin, a crease forming between his brows. Still massaging my knee in his grasp, he quietly hands over a clean pair of underwear, which I hastily slip on, standing up slightly to help the material over my hips.

“There are some matters we need to discuss before I allow you back to your free time.” Dr. Rogers releases my leg and tucks his hands into his pockets, tilting his head as he gazes at me in the chair.

My head nods, ready to hear his instructions. Hands folding on my lap, they scrunch up the material of my dress in my fists. My thigh press together, feeling the remnants of the procedure sticking to my new panties. I shift at the uncomfortable sensation, teeth worrying my inner cheek.

“It’s imperative for your recovery that you refrain from touching yourself as I have. It could be detrimental to you condition. The treatment is best done under a medical professional’s care,” he relays, tone exact, face drawn in contemplation. “I’ve also already made a note in your file that no orderly or nurse should lay a finger on you.”

My eyes snap up to meet his, confusion prominent on my features. “Why?” I ask, not exactly displeased by the mandate, but still baffled. Surely, that wouldn’t work in a hospital environment such as this.

“For all intents and purposes, you treatment is experimental. I don’t want outside influences negatively impacting the results.”

A quiet scoff of disbelief escapes me, blinking owlishly at the doctor. An experimental treatment—didn’t he say there was research? My eyes shift around the room, looking for a safe place to land. Dr. Rogers’ head tilts further, following my eyes until I focus on him.

“Don’t worry,” he soothes with a fond smile. “They won’t disobey the order or they’ll have me to deal with.”

He holds his hand out, helping me to stand from the chair. My weak knees falter beneath me for a moment before I straighten my spine and get a hold of myself.

“During the next few days, you may notice me nearby. I’ll be conducting an observation of your condition to gauge the timeline for your next treatment,” Dr. Rogers concludes, guiding me to the door.

I hesitate with my hand reaching out toward the door knob. Biting my lip, I turn to the man beside me, catching his kind eyes.

“Thank you, Dr. Rogers,” I blurt, dropping my chin as the words spill past my lips. “I can’t—You didn’t—I don’t know how to express how much it means to me that you’re willing to try alternate methods of treatment, just for my sake.” Focusing solely on his shoes, the fingers that brush over my cheek startle me.

He waits a moment in silence, for me to raise my gaze or to find the right response, I don’t know. But he finally says, “Nonsense, sweetheart, I just want what’s best for you,” accompanied by a lighthearted chuckle.

A weight lifts off my shoulders at the sound. I glance up to search his face, to seek out his sincerity. Hope takes root in my chest, a little seed that begins to grow as I see the look in his eyes, satisfied and triumphant.

“Why don’t you head to the Day Room,” he suggests quietly with a gentle nudge to the small of my back, “I’m sure your friends will be waiting for you.”

I nod, departing with a final word of thanks.

My body feel lighter than air, liable to start skipping with indescribable delight as I turn from the office. My steps echo on the floor tiles, lips humming a favorite tune of mine, one that reminds me of happier days.

I freeze in place the next moment, catching sight of a figure in the dim lights. My brow furrows while my heartbeat stutters with foreboding.

In the shadows down the hall, a broad figure with long brown hair skirts around the corner, quickly ducking out of sight.

The air crackles with tension, my arms wrapping around myself in a gesture of self-comfort. Nothing happens, but I wait, anxiety and anticipation a cocktail streaming through my veins. After a moment more, I swallow the jolt of fear and continue walking to find Wanda and Gertie.

Surely the figure is nothing to be concerned about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I missed any tags, let me know and I’ll add them! If you wanna know what I’ve loosely researched about female hysteria and everything that happens in the chapter, leave a comment or you can look up female hysteria and hysteria on Wikipedia (like I did). It’s super interesting.
> 
> 💜
> 
> Also, if you want to drop by and say ‘hi’ or wanna have a chat, here’s my [Tumblr!](http://foxgloveprincess.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is James Barnes doing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mind the Tag Update!**  
>  Tags Added: Whump (for the whole story, really), Cunnilingus, Masturbation, Sexual Harassment, Attempted Sexual Assault, Violence, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
> 
> This one gets kinda graphic. Just be warned.

Weeks pass by, days spent wallowing in the Day Room or working in the bakery, trying to piece together enough will to keep existing in this prison with filth smeared on the walls and dead eyes set into nearly every patient’s face. The daily pills, administered to each one of us, drape a haze over every moment, blending them into one long expanse of time that hastens and lingers in various intervals.

Wanda and Gertie keep me company, bringing a spark of vibrancy into the dreary grey world of Briarcliff. Friends I never thought I would have, but wouldn’t survive without. Though the leeching atmosphere of the hospital smothers those brief moments of joy, the memories fizzling before I can cherish them.

Dr. Rogers sees me almost every day, administering his treatment and leaving my knees weak. A deep, hungry warmth constant between my thighs as soon as I catch a glimpse of his face in the halls. Always so calm and patient with me, kind in a way that none of the other staff at Briarcliff are. He’s a good, decent man, working so hard to help me. Though I keep my fond thoughts at bay, knowing that I cannot allow myself that softness in this world of the asylum.

And I’ve developed a shadow.

At first, I thought I was just seeing things, the lurking shadow on the floor or the glimpse of broad shoulders around the corner. Hearing heavy breathing behind me or feeling the prickle of a stare on the back of my neck.

Then, I thought it was a coincidence. That his treatment took him to the medical wing at the same time. That he decided to work in the bakery in the morning or afternoon spontaneously. That he liked sitting in the armchair across from the ratty couch in the Day Room.

But I couldn’t deny it for long. The constant presence palpable in the air around me. Wanda’s flickering eyes, darting just over my shoulder. Gertie quieting her tone and dropping her head.

James Barnes was following me—still follows me.

He doesn’t speak, I have yet to hear one syllable from his lips. And he always stays just a bit too far to engage, to address.

But his _eyes_. The greyish-blue pools, dark and intense, drawing me in any time they lock onto mine. Like a rabbit in a snare, I freeze under his gaze, wondering at his focus. It doesn’t make sense in my mind, that he would stay so close, that he would find something of interest in me.

He’s insane. A murderer. What could I possibly offer him except another victim to add to his list?

Yet his presence isn’t sinister—not at all. Just, perhaps, unsettling. A burly man, muscled and imposing, following behind or beside me, like my own personal guard. His intent hidden behind a metaphorical wall sturdier than a concrete slab.

Two and a half months of my confinement pass before things change, though if given the choice, I would have preferred the status quo.

The sun beams down on the Briarcliff grounds, warming the air outside. A blanket of dark clouds loom in the distance, too far off to worry about. Instead, I go about my task, carting trays of bread from the bakery to the loading dock, admiring the sunny day as much as I am able.

Helping to load the bakery truck does not provide much freedom, but it does provide fresh air, the gentle breeze a privilege.

Antoine, the guard, watches closely, leaning against the wall by the door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and an easy smile on his lips, spouting some story to one of the nurses taking her smoke break. “So this guy walks up to me, big ass joker with hands the size of ham hocks…”

It’s almost pleasant, a small moment of normalcy. But it’s not—I can’t listen to Antoine’s story or bask as I truly please in the sunshine, too focused on not dropping the trays of bread as my hands shake.

Because Aldrich Killian works beside me. Ruining any pleasantness the day has to offer.

A shiver runs down my spine every time he passes just a little too close, far too aware of the reason he’s locked up in Briarcliff. He’s a serial rapist and sexual predator. When he’s not strapped into a straight jacket, he can be found harassing and bullying patients with mental disabilities, picking on them until they break down in distress, touching himself all the while.

My stomach lurches in disgust, his eyes leering just the slightest bit too long on my figure.

When the last tray slides into the back of the van, Antoine stubs out his cigarette on the ground, crushing it under his toe. The nurse steps aside, doing the same, leading the guard back into the building.

But something catches my eye—a small yellow dandelion sitting low on the ground, poking between a crack in the concrete.

“Come on,” the guard calls, gruff tone impatient and demanding.

My head snaps over toward the order, but something about that dandelion draws me in, that spark of color trapped in a dreary existence.

“Sir, please, may I go get it?” I ask gesturing to the flower, eyes turning pleading as he contemplates my request.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. He nods stiffly and I jump to grab the dandelion and pull it up by the stem. It breaks off easily in my hand and I shove it in my pocket, scurrying as quick as possible back into the back door to the bakery.

Antoine follows me in, locking the door with his ring of keys and a grumble.

The hallway is darker leading into the bakery, the walls piled with sacks of flour and sugar, cast with shadows from the lack of overhead lighting.

A finger tickles over my elbow, palm wrapping around my forearm and tugging me close to a body smelling of sweat and smoke.

I yelp, a sound of surprise, wiggling my arms violently to pry myself from the strong grip. My blood drains from my face, a shot of ice shooting through my body as I see the pale hand.

“You smell like roses.” Aldrich’s voice slithers into my ear, his other hand working lewdly under the waistband of his pants. “Such a sweet thing, aren’t you. Want me to treat you real nice?”

I whimper, reaching up my hands to push at his chest, nails sinking threateningly into the material of his shirt. His lips twitch in a grimy grin, a hiss between his teeth. Panic rises like bile in my throat, mind racing with dread. A scream builds in my chest, barely held at bay by my clenched teeth.

“Killian! Get your hands off her,” Antoine barks, shoving the man off me and pushing him back into the bakery.

Aldrich doesn’t fight it, raising his hand from his trousers and shaking off drops of his spunk onto the floor. He winks in my direction and turns away, whistling a jaunty tune that turns my stomach.

Antoine follows after him, not paying my frozen figure a shred of attention. Leaving me forgotten in the wake of Aldrich’s molestation. Alone in the cold, the dark, the shock.

My legs collapse beneath me, unable to support my weight. The impact jolts my body, the ache an instant shot of pain to my knees. Tears stream down my face, chest heaving with harsh breaths that can’t seem to draw oxygen into my lungs. My trembling hands clutch at my face.

Shuffling steps at the end of the hall draw my attention, wary eyes glancing up to see the looming shadow—fearing a reappearance of the sexual predator.

They approach, a slash of light highlighting grey blue eyes and long brown hair. James. I tuck my head down, terrified that my position has left me vulnerable.

The man keeps stalking forward, dropping into a crouch and still advancing. Warm hands cup my cheeks, tilting my gaze back up. His brow tilts in confused distress, thumb wiping over my cheeks and brushing away the tear marks. He doesn’t shush my sniveling or say a word. He just keeps our eyes locked, steady and sure.

The longer I stare into the storm of his irises, the more stable my heart beats. The weight lifting off my chest until my shaky breaths come easier, even inhales deep into my lungs. My lips part around the air, a new wave of perplexing thoughts grabbing hold of me.

Soothed by this serial killer, I search for an explanation for his tenderness, studying his face for some sort of sign. My tongue flicks over my lips, trying to form words.

My voice croaks, throat rough and swampy from tears, “Thank you.” Tears well along my waterline again, but I blink them away, rubbing my cheeks with the heel of my palm to catch the stray drops that escape. I sniff, wiping at my nose, trying to bring my appearance back to some semblance of composure. “Why? Why do you follow me? Why are you being so nice to me?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes still scanning my hunched form, analyzing every tick of movement.

“Hey, get outta there, you two,” Antoine barks from his patrol of the bakery.

I jump, startled by his booming command, squeaking out a quick, affirmative response. The guard hums impatiently, muttering swears under his breath as he departs.

Sniffing once more, I rise shakily to my feet and scamper out of the dark hallway, James following close behind. My feet know where I’m going, stomach flipping with worry that I’ll interrupt something important—but I just can’t make myself stop. My pace is hurried, quick steps carrying me directly to the suite of offices.

My hand raises to rap on the solid wood of Dr. Rogers’ door. The skin prickling on the back of my neck, James’ familiar presence presses behind me, a warmth emanating from his body into mine, quelling the anxious shivers that shake my shoulders.

Three times I knock, a quick succession of beats, silently praying Dr. Rogers will be inside and available.

When the door swings open, the doctor’s surprised face greeting me, my gaze quickly sweeps over the room, searching for other patients or his colleagues. His lips part on a question. But before he can utter a single word, I wrap my arms around his waist, clutching him tight, shuddering breaths heaving into my lungs.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize, murky, frightened emotions bubbling up within me, overwhelming like a tidal wave. “He touched me, I tried to get away, but he wouldn’t let me go.” Tears drip down my cheeks, absorbed by his shirt as his hands smooth over the back of my uniform.

“Who touched you?” he asks, voice too calm, unnatural. He pushes me back gently, his hands landing on my shoulders to keep me in place as he catches my gaze. He whispers my name, softly, “who touched you?”

His eyes flick over my shoulder for a second, eyes hardening, finally noticing the man standing at my back and moving me quickly behind him. James stands in the doorway of Dr. Rogers’ office, hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white.

“Did you touch her?” Dr. Rogers questions, one hand at my front, barring me from moving forward as I try to navigate around him.

“No, Dr. Rogers,” I stutter, mind racing, confusion growing, “I mean, yes, he did, but it was after he found me upset. I—it wasn’t like what-what…” I trail off, unable to bring forth his name, feeling it sitting like lead in my stomach, sinking down to my toes, making me feel dirty, defiled.

The two men stare each other down, locked in a battle of wills for some reason I cannot understand. My hands wrap around Dr. Rogers’ arm, trying to draw his attention away and break the rising tension in the room.

“A-Aldrich grabbed me and-and he was touching himself, pressed right up against me,” I whisper, hiccuping over the words and digging my nails into the sleeves of the doctor’s jacket. “He-he,” I gulp, a lump forming in my throat and blocking my airway, “he—”

Dr. Rogers shushes me, finally looking away from James. He urges me over to one of his chairs, sitting me down and offering me his handkerchief.

James follows, his steps light as he approaches and crouches just beside my knees. His hand reaches out, resting just on my thigh, the weight of his touch comforting despite my mind telling me it shouldn’t be.

A blanket wraps around my shoulders, the heavy fabric encasing me in warmth as the two men exchange wary glances with one another.

I clear my throat, sniffing away my tears to mutter, “I’m sorry if this is bad for my recovery, I tried to get away.”

“No, sweetheart, no,” Dr. Rogers soothes, his hand cupping my cheek to raise my gaze to meet his, “You did nothing wrong.” His brow sits low over his eyes, the blue swirling with concern. “However, we can’t have Mr. Killian targeting you.” His hand retreats from my cheek, the sensation of his caress lingering.

My stomach swoops, craving his touch. I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to chase after his hand, grab at his wrist and draw him back. Blinking away the yearning, I tug at the blanket around my shoulders, wrapping it tighter around me.

Dr. Rogers’ turns his attention toward the brunet for a second, just a quick glance. Silence thrums in the room for a long moment, the doctor lost in contemplation and James staring up at me from his place on the floor at my side.

“I believe it’s time for your treatment today,” Dr. Rogers announces suddenly, adjusting his jacket and turning to close the file on his desk.

A spark of excitement crackles through me, heating my cheeks and sending tingles toward the apex of my thighs, expectation blooming deliciously. Though mild confusion tinges the edges of my anticipation, I disregard it, willing to submit myself for more of Dr. Rogers’ blissful touch.

A low, rolling, growl vibrates through James’ throat, his face contorting in a snarl and turning on the doctor. Murder and rage shine bright in his eyes, fist clenching at his side, the fingers of his right hand digging into my thigh where it rests.

Dr. Rogers reaches out a tentative hand. “You’re more than welcome to observe, if you wish.” He rests it on James’ shoulder, a steady, unruffled breath passing before he retracts it and rounds my chair toward the door.

Stuck in my chair, I wait, James’ grip keeping me in place. A crease wrinkles his brows as he thinks. When his fingers brush over the hem of my uniform, dropping away, I stand cautiously and walk to Dr. Rogers, glancing over my shoulder to see James two steps behind me.

The light tapping of Dr. Rogers’ and my feet follow us down the hallway. James’ steps falling lighter than air, silent and stealthy. Yet I can feel him, his protective presence like a physical weight behind me.

Despite the change in routine, the same door opens, the chair waiting. I sit daintily on the leather, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands. Dr. Rogers closes the door behind us, the lock turning with it’s customary click. He flicks on the over head light, fluorescent beams blinding me for an instant before he covers them, crowding over me until he’s haloed by their brilliance.

My heart flutters in my chest, hands clutching at the arms of the chair. Anticipation—yearning—boils in my belly, that sweet ecstasy so close on the horizon I can taste it. Dr. Rogers strokes a tender hand down my arm, our eyes locked. James steps closer to the chair, his stare burning into me like a brand. My teeth sink into my lower lip, feeling desire pool slick in my underwear.

“How do you want your treatment today, sweetheart?” Dr. Rogers asks, his voice hushed and intimate, honeyed words dripping with expectation.

I glance over toward James, nervousness overtaking me, unaccustomed to his focused attention in this setting. My mouth dries, his hungry gaze capturing mine and boring so deep I feel it like a hook.

A delicate touch tips my chin back, drawing my focus back toward the doctor as he commands, “Answer my question.”

“I-I…” The words die on my tongue, unable to form the syllables to reply. Of course an answer floats to the forefront of my mind, my eyes flitting quickly to his plush lips. But I can’t voice the longing that tempts me, so tantalizing.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip, drawing it away from my teeth, light as a feather but sending shocks of heat directly to my core.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, soft enough for my ears only. I nod, arching toward his standing position like a flower leaning into sunshine. “You know what comes next, sweetheart.”

He backs away from the chair, focused on my form. He crosses his arms and waits, expression patient as always, despite the slow darkening of his gaze. Deeply ensnared by his admiration, I strip away the fabric from my body—James’ sweater, my dress, bra, and panties—until I stand bare before the two men in the room.

A soft gasp tickles at my ears, but before I can turn my attention toward the sound, Dr. Rogers instructs, “No touching her while I’m treating her.”

A low, disgruntled grumble responds.

Dr. Rogers steps forward slowly, his hands urging me to relax back into the cool leather. He straps me into the chair with the utmost care, caressing my limbs and smoothing his fingers as he latches the restraints.

“Good girl,” he purrs.

His finger dance across my skin, goosebumps forming under the slow drag of his digits. He carefully kneads the flesh of my breasts, my nipples pebbling in response. I gasp, arching my back to press closer to his touch. He hums, eyes sparkling, pleased with my reactions, returning to my front and gliding a low stool across the floor.

He sits, pushing the stirrups wide and positioning his broad shoulders between my thighs. His hands, palms warm, drag up my thighs until they tumble beneath his touch. He hovers closer, ducking his head until his breath blows across my sex.

The cuffs clink as an involuntary shudder shakes my body. My hips buck up, canting toward his mouth, hungry for him to continue, knowing of what he is capable, needing it more than I wish to breathe.

“I’ve got you,” Dr. Rogers coos, inhaling deeply and bowing his head as if in prayer, resting his forehead on the soft flesh of my hips. Hand petting over my stomach, a futile attempt to settle me.

He gathers himself after a moment, a quick, affectionate buss placed at the top of my mound. And he begins—devouring me like a starving man, intent on rapidly inducing a hysterical paroxysm. Giving me no time to catch my breath, flung straight into the tingling sensations of pleasure.

His tongue ravenously delves into my folds, exploring the points of pleasure that drag whimpers from my chest. He sucks and licks, flicks over my clit, my core fluttering around emptiness.

My lips part, gasping and arching into his warm mouth. My pulse pounds through my ears, thumping through every vein in my body like a drum beat. The coil of my excitement immediately tightening, Dr. Rogers playing with me as if I’m his favorite instrument.

The peak builds quickly, washing over me in a quivering wave of euphoria. My mind clouds over, a hazy fog of delicious satisfaction loosening my limbs as I melt into the smooth leather of the chair.

“Not done yet, sweetheart. I know you have another for me,” Dr. Rogers rasps, unrelenting from his ministrations. His hands massage over my thighs, his fingers searching for the burning heat at the apex, squelching through my arousal and prodding at my entrance.

My eyes squeeze shut, walls clenching around the digits slowly plunging into me. He stalls for a moment, fully inside me, relishing in the wet heat encasing his fingers, knuckles flush to my lower lips. Face still close to my sex, he breathes deeply, exhaling a cool puff of air against my clit. My back arches with the sensation, too sensitive from his enjoyment.

With a quick chuckle, he returns his lips, suckling at sweetly at that little bundle of nerves. And his fingers begin their thrusts, crooking upward toward that one place inside me that sends fireworks bursting behind my eyelids. My hips undulate, rolling with the doctor’s touch, breaths panting and gasping for _more more more_. Whimpers, whines, and moans coaxed from between my lips.

A deep, indulgent groan echoes through the room. My eyes flutter open, searching for the source.

James sidles closer to the chair, his eyes shining and dark, pupils blown wide eclipsing the storm of his irises. Only a millimeter of space remains between us, yet the distance is cavernous. My hands struggle against my bonds, struck by a sudden urge to reach out to him.

Dr. Rogers slides another finger into me, stretching me wide. A breathy moan rolls in my throat, trapped in James’ gaze. His face slack with adoration, as if worshipping at a divine altar.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the roughness of his voice startling me.

He reaches out, left hand grasping the top of the seat by my hair, fingers digging into the leather until it creaks. His other hand disappears, palming himself through his trousers, his cock swelling against his zipper. And he keeps muttering praise—psalms of affection and gasps of devotion.

He grunts, head dipping while he stares up at me through his lashes, his hips spasming for a second, the humid brush of his sigh fanning across my cheeks. His head tilts, nose a hair’s breadth away, lips slanting close to mine, our breaths intermingling.

I shatter apart, breaking into a million pieces, my pleasure roaring through my veins until I tremble at the power. My jaw drops, a keening cry ripped from my chest. Eyes squeezing shut, I surrender to the hysterical paroxysm, letting it fling me away from my body, blood roaring through my veins.

Dr. Rogers draws away slowly, his hand gentling me down from my high, the pleasure slowly ebbing away with his soft caress.

“There we go, that’s my girl,” Dr. Rogers sighs, a small smile stretching across his glistening lips.

Finding the doctor’s satisfied gaze through a hazy consciousness, I continue gulping breaths into my heaving chest.

His fingers skirt up my sides, delicately cradling my rib cage as he calms me down. His fingers sticky with the residue of my desire.

“Much better,” he sighs, flexing his hands around me. An inexplicable weight lifts from his shoulders, composure returning to his stance as his spine straightens.

James remains silent, head resting against the chair, exhales softly blowing the strands of my hair, skimming against the clammy skin of my neck.

The still room vibrates with an unheard pulse of suspense, each of us waiting. My tongue darts out, licking over my lips, parched from exertion.

Before I can even think the syllables needed to speak in my scrambled brain, Dr. Rogers moves quickly, reaching for a glass set on the counter and filling it with water from the sink.

He places it against my lips, tilting the cup back as I swallow great mouthfuls, replenishing my strength with each gulp of cool liquid. His fingers caress my face, a soothing thumb finding the apple of my cheek.

After quenching my thirst, I turn my head, recline against the chair, finding the man resting beside me. James’ eyes shine, wide and astounded, staring at me as if I were a holy figure blessing him with my acknowledgment.

My brows knit together, lips parting to ask, “Are you alright?” Reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder, the restraints clink, reminding everyone in the room of my position.

It snaps the remaining serenity in the room like a twig, both men tensing and regarding each other guardedly. Dr. Rogers acts first, quickly releasing me from my bonds, starting with my legs, massaging the red skin and helping them find their place on the floor.

James observes the doctor, eyes flitting between my face and his, attempting to discern something I can’t fathom. He sneaks closer, slowly, his face lowering toward mine, right hand reaching up to cradle my jaw whilst Dr. Rogers concentrates on his task.

“Mine,” James growls into my ear, tilting my face toward him.

A shiver dances down my spine, cautious eyes glancing toward my doctor, unsure of how I should address this situation.

But before I can think, James’ lips brush over mine, a gentle yet passionate caress. He withdraws quickly, the distance between us expanding like Moses parting the Red Sea. Leaving me shocked and floundering for the aim behind his claim, his actions. Prevented from reaching out to him, to beckon him closer.

And his eyes continue to burn, searing through me with their intensity, not quenched nor sated by his observation of my treatment or his kiss.

Dr. Rogers doesn’t notice the exchange, his touch a soothing sensation in the background of my thoughts, keeping me just clinging to threads of calm.

When he finishes, my limbs free, the doctor approaches me again, holding out a pair of clean underwear, sliding the garment up my legs and tracing his fingers absentmindedly over the waistband. He helps me dress the rest of the way, my bra and dress, James’ sweater. His touch tender, doting, the familiarity of the routine a balm for the budding stress that pricks at the back of my mind.

My fingers find the dandelion in my pocket, slightly crushed but still mostly intact. A small secret smile stretches my lips, a strange sort of joy sparking in my heart.

Warm, strong hands cup my elbows, urging me to stand from my seat on the chair. Though distracted, I rise, brushing out my uniform and waiting for my next instructions.

“Why don’t you go to the Day Room and find Ms. Maximoff,” Dr. Rogers suggests, his voice mildly strained as he mentions Wanda, “I have some matters to discuss with Mr. Barnes.”

My eyes flick over toward the man in question, a perplexed scowl marring his face. But I have no reason to object, nodding despite the trepidation sinking in my stomach as I walk through the halls.

Grey clouds in the sky above block out the sun from the windows in the Day Room. An ashen wash painting the whole room in shades of misery and depression. I sigh, stepping into the gloom.

“There you are!” Wanda exclaims.

She rushes up, grabbing my hands and hauling me over to the nearest couch, setting me down and perching right beside me, her knees bumping against my thigh.

“I thought something awful had happened to you,” she confesses, voice dropped in a low whisper. “You just disappeared from the bakery after you volunteered to load the truck. With Aldrich out there with you, I didn’t know what to think.” Her hands cup my face, head canting slightly, brow creased with worry as she examines my expression.

“Antoine didn’t let him do anything,” I say, shaking my head, tongue flicking out to moisten the dry flesh of my lips, “Not that Aldrich didn’t try, the creep. But he didn’t get too close and then James escorted my to see Dr. Rogers.” My teeth grit together as I realize the panic Wanda must have suffered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you. I didn’t realize.”

Wanda presses her forehead to mine, a sigh of relief breezing past her lips. “No, no,” she mutters, softly. Her hands skimming across my skin to wrap around the back of my neck. “As long as you’re alright,” repeating herself quietly, “you’re alright, you’re alright.”

I nod, our skin grazing each other. She blows one last puff of breath past her lips before releasing my neck and leaning back. Her hands find mine, entangling our fingers together on my lap. She contemplates them, wrapped together, thoughts flickering across her face.

“I don’t like how close James is to you, following you around everywhere,” she finally states, frowning as her eyes raise to meet mine, “He’s not safe.”

A heavy presence finds a spot on the couch behind me suddenly, dipping the cushions, causing me to lean back with the mild loss of balance.

“Easy there, sweets.”

My spine immediately tenses, the deep tone of Aldrich’s voice sending my skin crawling. One of his bony hands lands on my shoulder, fingers digging into me like a claw.

“You scuttled off so fast before, we didn’t get to finish what we started.” His nose brushes against my ear and I jolt forward, trying to jerk away from him. But he holds me tighter, dragging me back.

The stench of his breath wafts into my nose and I retch. Wanda’s eyes widen in her panic, hands fluttering toward my shoulder, eyes searching out for an orderly or guard to stop this.

But Brock stands in the corner, smug smile drawing up the corner of his lips, watching like my discomfort is his entertainment. Bile rises in my throat, palms sweating. The urge to run grips me deep in my soul, but Aldrich’s hand keeps me in place.

“Let me go,” I demand through gritted teeth, pulse pounding in my veins, laced with panic.

“Oh, no,” his voice slithers, “we’re gonna finish what we started.”

Wanda stands, rage burning in her eyes. She steps forward, prying Aldrich’s grip from my shoulder, grabbing his middle finger and bending it backward until he yelps in pain and releases me.

As Aldrich spews, “You bitch!”, Brock jumps from his position, shouting, “Hey!” and wrangles Wanda to the ground, locking her limbs and restraining her under his body. Her face turns to me, smushed into the cold tile, but still worried on my behalf.

In the split second I see fear flash in her eyes, Aldrich retreats from behind me with a choked gurgle in his throat. I whirl around at the disappearance, standing on wobbling legs to see James holding him by the throat.

The world slows down around me, movements slogging through molasses. Shouts and cries echo through my brain like static. But faster than I can blink, James wraps Aldrich in some kind of wrestling hold and drops to the floor. The resulting crack stabbing straight through my ears. I swallow thickly, stunned.

James stands slowly, chest heaving, a glowering snarl firmly plastered on his features. His eyes find me, the stormy irises cold and unfeeling.

We each take a step closer to one another, my hand shaking as I reach out for him, finding his trembling arm. His breaths calm, evening into long, deep pulls of air, but his face remains expressionless, chilling.

“Thank you, James,” I whisper, words rasping out of my throat over lumps that feel like crushed glass.

Tears prick in the back of my eyes as I scramble to figure out what to do, unwilling to glance away from the man before me—out of fear of him or the situation, I’m unsure.

His gaze scans over my figure, scrutinizing and appraising. My fingers find the small dandelion in my pocket, clutching at it and bringing it into view.

“Look what I found today,” I mumble, bringing the bud between us.

The heavy atmosphere hangs around us like a shroud, James balancing on a knife’s edge of control, all my efforts focused on keeping him appeased, peaceful.

His fingertips touch mine delicately, sliding over my skin and plucking the flower from my palm. He holds it, focusing on the yellow petals, the bud slightly deformed from being kept in my pocket.

James’ gaze meets mine, a small glimmer of affection twinkling in his eyes, and relief washes through me, my shoulders slouching from their tense posture.

Crowding me into the nearest corner against cold, unforgiving bricks, his body acts as a protective wall between me and the rest of the world. So close, his evaporating fear radiates from him, the realization heavy on my tongue.

All his actions to ensure my protection, my safety. Without having to ask, or being aware. Something compels him to look after me.

Fondness blooms within my heart, washing over me, a rapid swell. He licks his lips, readying himself to speak. My head inclines, ready to listen, my hand resting gently on his arm.

He doesn’t get his chance.

Two men, Brock and a guard, Darren, grab at James, wrapping around his limbs and dragging him away. His eyes widen, rage flashing darkly, jaw ticking with it as he thrashes against them.

“Time to put you back in the chair,” Brock grunts out, straining to contain James’ strength. He calls across the room for help, Dr. Strange and another orderly rushing over to the situation.

They grapple with James, the guard producing a baton to beat at his knees until he collapses with a pained grunt. They drag him across the floor, four men against one, contorting his body at frightening angles.

My lips part, ready to cry out, to object—‘No, wait,’ sitting on the tip of my tongue. I take a step toward the struggling men, intent on following them toward the door. My eyes overflow with tears, distressed by the violent display, heart palpitating in my chest. James’ eyes lock on me, his body still fighting to get away from them—to get back to me.

A dainty hand lands on my shoulder, disrupting my pursuit. I glance over, Wanda standing beside me.

“You cannot follow him, stay here,” she implores, attempting to coax me back toward the couch. Her expression radiates sympathy, and my eyes drop away from her, blinking back my tears.

A burbled cough catches our attention, wheezing from the floor behind us. Both of us turn to see Aldrich twitching on the tile, mouth parted on a gasp and face turning a splotchy red.

My head shakes, disturbed by the sight, abruptly pivoting and darting after the group of men taking James to the medical suites.

The door to the electroshock therapy room sits wide open, practically inviting onlookers to peer in. Dr. Strange and a nurse prepare the machinery as the three other men strap James to the chair—around his wrists, his arms, his chest, his head. All to hold him in place.

I can’t speak, can’t form words, but James knows I’m there, his chest heaving once again as his eyes catch mine. He pulls at the leather, struggling, writhing to break his bonds, lips gaping on a cry of frustration.

A firm hand finds it’s way to my waist. The familiar touch instantly lifts the feeling of dread in my body. I turn to Dr. Rogers, knowing he’ll make this all better.

But his face is hard, drawn, with a frown weighing down the corners of his lips. He watches his colleague work, a buzzing hum starting as the machine comes to life.

His gaze turns back to me, head shaking as his expression softens minutely at my distress. His arm wraps tighter around my waist, urging me away. But I plant my feet, fighting to stay with James.

“No, sweetheart, you can’t see this,” Dr. Rogers insists, physically dragging me away despite my resistance.

The lights in the hallway flicker.

And the screaming starts—gut wrenching, blood curdling, heartbreaking.

A sob tears out of my chest, hearing James’ anguish. The doctors shocking him to punish his violent tendencies—torturing him for protecting me.

Dr. Rogers pulls me away, hastening his pace to put as much distance as he can between that horrible screaming and me.

The door to his office opens, shutting us into the room as he slams the door closed. He drags me to the chair behind his desk, swiping the blanket used to comfort me earlier from its position on the floor.

He quickly sits, and draws me close, urging me to sit astride his lap, wrapping the blanket over my shoulders. His chair gives a creak of protest as I lower myself, but I can’t deny the comfort that settles over me in his warm embrace.

The dam bursts and I sob into his neck, burying my head into the crook to seek an escape from the events of the day. My breath hiccups from my lungs, stomach churning with nausea as I continue to bawl like a child. Snot drips from my nose and I cannot close my lips around the quiet wails that escape me.

But Dr. Rogers doesn’t comment, holding me tight and running his hand over my back. He rocks us on that chair, still creaking with every shift, a gentle, calming movement. Everything quiet save for the sounds of my grief.

I walk through the asylum without a shadow for two weeks after that day. Jumping at every small sound, spooked by every flicker of the fluorescent lights, Dr. Rogers’ treatments doing little to tame the building hysteria. It buzzes inside my skin, an anxiety that never abates, blood singing paranoia. Never feeling safe, never feeling rested.

Sitting in the Day Room across from Wanda, playing solitaire on the table as she teaches Gertie to braid, the weight of a gaze prickles the hair on the back of my neck.

Looking around, I spot James. His shoulders slouch, his head pitched toward the ground. But, still, he watches me.

He shuffles over, his gait slow, the short distance from the door to the tattered couch an arduous journey. There’s a hollowness behind his eyes that lances through my heart. His stare not as intense, his posture more docile, timid.

I remain still as he approaches, waiting for him to make the first move, thoughts flurrying.

But he immediately slumps on the couch, legs kicking onto the ratty cushions, head finding a resting place in my lap. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, his hand coming grasp at one of mine, resting it on his chest over his heart. It beats, a strong tattoo under my palm.

Seeing the angry red burn marks on his temples, I gasp, a quiet sound of dismay. James’ stormy eyes find mine, swirling with emotion as he peers up at me.

“It didn’t hurt,” he murmurs, though I know it’s a lie—the sound of his screams still haunting me every time I close my eyes.

I shake my head, unwilling to hear his placations. Instead, I reply with a quiet, “thank you,” once more expressing my gratitude for his protection with words that cannot seem to convey the depth of my appreciation.

He remains silent for a long moment, searching my face for something—though I don’t know exactly what. A watery smile cracks my lips, cheeks twitching with the strain of the expression.

His eyes crystallize with a burning intensity, blazing with conviction, fingers pulsing around mine as he declares, “If anyone else tries to touch what’s mine, I’ll rip their fucking arm off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is slow going, guys. Each chapter takes a lot out of me and I have to take a small break between each one to focus my creativity on other avenues. But thank you so much for those of you reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I’ll get the next chapter out as soon as I can.
> 
> If I missed any tags, _please_ let me know and I’ll add them!
> 
> 💜
> 
> Also, if you want to drop by and say ‘hi’ or wanna have a chat, here’s my [Tumblr!](http://foxgloveprincess.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you catch the eye of a predator, you’re never truly safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mind the Tag Update and Warnings for the Chapter!**  
>  Warning Tags that apply to this chapter include: Attempted Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Mental Health Issues, Derogatory Language, (Non-Consensual) Medical Procedures (this one comes near the end and may be upsetting or possibly triggering. so tread carefully, please. i don’t want to spoil it here, but if you’re concerned, send me an ask on tumblr, which is linked in the end note, and i’ll answer questions about it.)
> 
> If that last chapter was dark, this one might be darker. Be forewarned, it’s not pleasant.
> 
> For this chapter I researched catatonia, psychological shock, dissociative episodes, and other related subjects. I tried my best to portray the emotional turmoil of this chapter with my research in mind, but still took some artistic liberties. There are also uses of derogatory language in this chapter that were used in the time period (which I usually tend to avoid in my narrator’s perspective, but these instances are spoken by a certain character). None of it is meant to offend.

Drifting on wobbling, pleasure soaked legs, my mind remains focused on the last hour. Today’s treatment sticking to my thoughts like paste.

_“Tell me you love me,” Dr. Rogers begs, his eyes wide and pleading, his fingers desperate within the sumptuous embrace of my sex. The warm press of his length against the trembling skin of my thighs, his hips rutting against me, the slippery trail of arousal leaking from his cockhead. His whispered pleas more persistent and persuasive with each syllable. “It’s okay, I promise. Please, love me.” Our gazes locked, my core clenches, hands straining against my bonds to reach for him._

_“I—” I swallow, thoughts scattered about my head, no sense within reach, yet the words spill past my lips with ease, “I love you,” I cry out, my body seized by ecstasy._

_Dr. Rogers grunts in my ear, rough and strained. A warm splash of ejaculate hits my thigh and lower lips, his cock twitching against me with the final lazy pumps of his hand._

Bumping against the doorframe of the Day Room, I bite my lip, feeling the slickness still present between my thighs.

A dark chuckle catches my attention. Turning toward the sound, my heart clenches in fear. Brock leans beside me, his arms crossed and a smug yet sinister smirk tilting his lips.

“So,” he muses, “Dr. Rogers is certainly taking good care of you, isn’t he?” Ice shoots through my veins, sweat gathering under my arms at his implication. “You know,” he leers, leaning closer, “I can take care of you, better than he can.”

My throat dries, jaw dropping. My heart beats in my chest like a drum. Head shaking, I step back, bumping again into the doorframe.

“I know what he does with you in your little room,” Brock sneers, glancing down my body like he can see the sin dripping down my thighs. “Know how that brain-blitzed serial killer follows after you like a lost puppy. How that Sokovian dyke moons over you like you hang the stars in the sky.” He surges forward, pinning me against the wood. A whimper quivers against my lips, eyes darting away, searching for an escape. “Seems to me you’re handing out pieces of your pie and I want a taste.” He presses closer, body flush against mine, lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “I think Aldrich had the right idea. Wonder what you’d do with a real man.”

“Brock,” a voice barks from behind me. “I know you’re not going against my precise instructions not to touch this patient.”

Relief washes over me instantly, hearing Dr. Rogers’ voice like a hallelujah chorus, however tense it sounds in the moment.

“Of course not, doctor.” The orderly steps away from me, glaring at the man who ruined his fun. “She just seemed to be experiencing some instability as she walked. I was only trying to help her.” Brock’s teeth grit, jaw ticking with his irritation.

Dr. Rogers doesn’t respond, eyes flashing darkly, stepping closer to me and cupping my face, tilting my head toward him under the guise of an examination. My gaze shines with my gratitude, tongue licking over my dry lips.

“I’ll just leave you to your pet, then,” Brock mutters harshly before stomping away, shoulders tense.

As soon as the orderly turns the corner, out of sight, Dr. Rogers’ shoulders slump, a great exhale breezing past his lips. The crease remains between his brows and his mouth presses into a strained, apologetic smile.

“I didn’t realize James was taken to the hydrotherapy room,” he mutters, releasing my face with one final brush of his gentle fingers down my neck to my shoulder, his gaze following the motion. His hand rests against my skin, playing absentmindedly with the neckline of my sweater. “It looks like Brock has taken an interest in you. We’ll have to be wary of his presence in the future.” His eyes find mine, glinting with a stern light as he commands, “Never be alone with him.”

I nod enthusiastically, the orderly the last person in the world I would want anywhere near me. The doctor’s strong fingers pulse on my shoulder, squeezing just on the painful side of unpleasant.

“Good girl,” Dr. Rogers praises quietly. He gestures to the Day Room behind me, glancing around the corridor for onlookers.

With a shy twitch of my lips, I skirt around the doorway, nearly bumping into Marty as he bangs his head against the wall. Backing away from the man, a nurse rushes over to stop him and I stumble further into the room.

Wanda sits on the couch, her head dipped low, fist before her mouth, teeth nibbling on the dead skin around her nails. She mutters to herself in syllables of a language I can’t understand, but stops when her eyes flash toward me.

She pops out of her seat and rushes over, grabbing my hands and dragging me close. Her grip trembles, lips twitching with a smile fighting to break over her features.

“I—” she stutters, a bark of incredulous laughter cutting off her sentence, “I’m getting out of here.” She leans close, her words whispered to me like a secret. “My brother Pietro is here, he’s actually getting me out.” Her hands squeeze my fingers until I feel them creak under her grip.

Her words sink like lead, weighing down my heart until it reaches my feet. Though she’s twittering with excitement, I can’t share her sentiment, jealousy simmering within me.

I draw away, needing the air to breathe, her grip suffocating. But she doesn’t relent, pulling me closer, her hands fluttering over my face and neck.

“I won’t forget about you,” she promises, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do. And then the two of us can have the life we deserve. I—”

“Wanda,” a man calls, his words accented and rushed as he approaches with swift instructions tripping off his tongue in a foreign language.

My eyes flash over to the young man, his hair so blonde it glints white in the overhead lighting. The family resemblance is clear on his features—Wanda’s brother Pietro, her twin.

He grabs at Wanda’s hand, pulling her away from me. A stapled pamphlet clutched in his other, grip so tight the papers crinkle and crease. Tears well in Wanda’s eyes, her nails digging into my wrist, scratching at my skin to keep herself tethered to me.

“Wait,” she insists, pleading with her brother through a weighty glance.

Pietro relents for a moment, gaze flicking toward his watch and toe tapping on the tile. Wanda turns to me, breathing out a slow, even breath and swallowing thickly. She leans forward, a quick movement my mind barely registers before her lips press against mine in a chaste kiss.

She pulls away just as quickly, leaving me stunned and breathless, my stomach swooping with a strangely pleasant sensation. My eyes drop to her lips as they form words in her native tongue. Though I understand not one syllable, I grasp the ardent nature of her proclamation.

“Let’s go,” Pietro urges, tugging on Wanda’s hand, attention darting about the room, searching for a threat. His eyes lock onto mine, his brow furrowing curiously as he studies me. But the next moment, it fades and he drags his sister from the room, tears streaking down her cheeks as she backs out the door and escapes Briarcliff.

My mind blanks out like static, vacant, staring at the doorway through blurred eyes like somehow she’ll strut back through, like nothing happened. Waiting for the snap back to reality where she’s sitting on the couch and playing Old Maid with Gertie. Like none of this is real. Like she hasn’t left me.

I don’t know how much time passes, but at some point, a familiar warmth stands at my back, pressing close without touching. Through the smell of piss and shit and cleaning product and despair, James’ musky scent breaks through. Drawing my focus away from the doorway, quieting the sad ache that tingles through my extremities.

Strong, protective arms wrap around my waist, dampness clinging to the linen uniform, his long hair dripping on my shoulders as he rests his chin in the crook of my neck.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice gruff in my ear, words spoken quietly in a private moment between us.

My head sweep slowly once, left to right, body numbing as much as my mind. James’ hold pulls me tighter to his front, guiding us back toward the ratty, disgusting couch. He pushes me into the corner, cozy against the threadbare arm, watching as I fold my legs, tucking my feet beneath me. He sits close to my side, his back toward me, folding forward to rest his arms on his knees, a defensive position shielding my body from the rest of the room.

An empty nothingness consumes me, swelling through my body like the tide in the sea. My hand reaches out on it’s own, grasping for connection, James’ belt loop hooking over my first finger. I crave our affinity as the waves threaten to drag me under, his presence enough to soothe the ragged edges of my soul.

“You won’t leave me, James, will you?” I ask, voice barely whispering the words through the loud chaos of the Day Room.

“Never,” he states, leaning back toward my touch, eyes flashing over his shoulder, reflecting the sincerity of his vow.

Months pass, and Wanda never returns for me. A broken promise left shattered at my feet.

The weather changes, growing colder and harsher with each passing day. Hours spent in the bakery, expelling the dark, deep muck of depression, agony, pain, and suffering into loaves of bread sold to townspeople outside the bleak walls of Briarcliff, their houses warm and cheery around the holiday season.

Gertie remains constant by my side, James shadowing behind us even when I can’t see him. He’s sweet to my friend, dropping little gifts for her—a length of ribbon for her little tuft of hair, a sprig of evergreen, a few strands of tinsel. She cherishes each one, squirreling them away in covert hiding places, secret little pockets full of joy.

For me, James gives little gifts of affection, a press of his fingers against mine, a hug, a shoulder—fighting against the hopelessness that carves deeper into my bones day by day.

If Dr. Rogers notices my diminishing mood, he says nothing. Though his touch becomes gentler, lingering, his warmth pressing closer against me, the restraints disregarded as he coaxes me toward hysterical paroxysms. The heady rush fizzling immediately like embers meeting the ocean. Until he stops treating me all together, taking the time of our sessions to hold me on his lap, soothing me with a tender touch and lovingly whispered words of devotion instead.

Briarcliff intakes new patients nearly every day, more bodies to fill the newly vacated beds of the rare patient discharged by family members or, more frequently, the patients who simply disappear, never to be heard from again—taken in the middle of the night while others howl in agony or from the Day Room by orderlies and never seen again.

But at least there is a brief respite to the terror of living in the asylum—Brock finds interest in other targets, women clinging to their sanity, like me, who make for much better— _easier_ —sport. Dr. Rogers’ and James’ presence an easy deterrent to the orderly, keeping me safe even in moments when I don’t realize it. Until new meat becomes just as rotten as the old meat—chewed up, spat out, and no more fun.

Wiping my cheeks with the cuff of my sweater, I stagger down the hallway, a hacking cough scratching at my dry throat and thoughts too filled with misery. Dr. Rogers’ session today proved dour, despite his every effort to persuade me away from my despondency. And I cannot shake his parting look of concerned pity from my mind’s eye.

Turning the corner, I halt abruptly, catching sight of a scene that leaves me speechless.

“Little dumbass pinhead,” Brock derides, pushing Gertie harshly again the wall.

She cowers, bending over to protect herself. But the orderly continues advancing like the predator he is. His fists slam into the wall above her shoulders, her body shaking with fear. Brock spits down at her. Fury ignites and rages within me.

“Get away from her!”

I shorten the distance between us, running to gain momentum before shoving the orderly aside. He only stumbles a few steps, but anything to get him away from sweet Gertie. Keeping my body between the vile man and my friend, I sneer at Brock. He glares at me, catching his balance and standing tall, his muscles hulking, chest heaving angrily.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” he seethes. He steps forward threateningly, but stops just short. His breath, hot and putrid, huffs over my face. But his eyes flick over my shoulder and I know who stands at my back, who keeps him from advancing any further.

James’ hand rests lightly on my hip, fingers flexing in a comforting squeeze. My rage does not settle in his presence, but my confidence builds with his protective strength behind me.

In an empty hallway with no foot traffic to speak of, Brock has no choice but to retreat or face our wrath on his own. Even if another staff member were to round the corner to find us, James would still have plenty of time to cause Brock serious bodily harm. Aldrich’s corpse could tell him his odds.

So he steps back, sneer still contorting his features like a rabid dog. “I will make you regret this, you psycho whore cunt,” he hisses quietly to me before turning and storming down the hallway and away from us.

We see neither hide nor hair of Brock the rest of the day, the hours passing in the Day Room as the sun rolls across the sky behind heavy clouds. I convince James to play a game of cards with me, each hand somehow turning in my favor—though from the twitch of his lips, I suspect it to be an intentional ploy.

Gertie remains quiet by our side, subdued after her ordeal. We speak quietly to her, including her in our conversation, though hardly expecting her to respond. Until, slowly, she opens back up, tentatively blooming into her cheery nature. And I sigh in relief.

Dinner passes without fanfare, more slop that tastes of sawdust and cigarette ash. We’re herded to our cells like cattle to their pen and the lights of the asylum shut of with the thunk of the industrial switches.

Sleep alludes me, initially—the looming threat of Brock finding a way to my cell keeping me awake. On edge, prepared to fight him off. Cries and screams echo through the halls, a symphony of psychosis that rattles through my bones like a morbid lullaby. Eventually, the exhaustion of existence drags me under to a fitful slumber that offers no respite. My dreams filled with sharp teeth and an insectile leer that chases after me no matter how fast I run.

Morning breaks with it’s normal grey light that splashes against the grimy walls of my cell. The blankets push off my legs, letting the persistent chill cling to my limbs as I rise from my bed. Washing my face and wiping down my body with the water sitting in a basin on my beside table, I prepare for another day living in the asylum. I shrug on my cardigan, like donning armor, and wait.

The guards visit each door along the row of the women’s ward, swinging them wide before moving to the next one. Each of my neighbors shuffles out of their room, filing down the hall toward the Day Room or the bakery or treatment rooms or wherever they manage to wander off.

I wait on the threshold of my cell, watching each woman pass, their feet dragging across the floor. Not one turning their eye to me, blankly staring at the path ahead of them.

Head craning in the opposite direction, I search for sight of Gertie, a few doors down, no movement from her cell. As the hall clears, I kick off from my spot and walk over, peeking in. A pile of blankets wraps around her on her bed, making her look like a great big lumpy sack of potatoes.

“Come on Gertie, time to wake up,” I sing song, with a short huff of amusement. Stepping beside her bed, I place my hand on her shoulder and shake her lightly. “Gertie, darling, time to start your day.”

Her body rocks back and forth like a wooden plank, stiff and still. Retracting my hand, I stand for a minute, listening, waiting to hear the sound of her breath. But all I can hear is the fierce thumping of my own heart.

“Gertie?”

Swallowing thickly, I reach out, slowly drawing away the scratchy blanket from her body. Her hair springs from under the blanket, and then I reveal her big, glassy eyes, staring wide and unseeing, set in a bruised and bloody face.

Jumping back, I slap my hand over my mouth, screaming into my palm. Stuck staring at her eyes, tears well in mine, streaming down my cheeks and blurring my vision as my lungs struggle to draw breath.

Taking a shaky step forward, I approach her bedside, reaching to touch her cheek, to perhaps wake her from this state. My fingers trip over the ice cold skin, a gasping breath sucked past my lips while my hand trembles in the air between us.

Antoine the guard and Nurse Palmer rush into the room, pausing for only a moment when they discover the scene before them. Antoine grabs my arms, dragging me out and back into the hall. My final glance toward my friend sees Nurse Palmer checking her pulse and drawing her white sheet over her head. Body wracking with sobs, I can hardly stand, slipping from the guard’s grip as he tries to support me.

“Would you look after her?” he calls to someone down the hall, using all his strength to hold my body up against the brick wall.

Steely arms band around my waist, clutching me tight until I gasp in pain. Glancing over my shoulder to the man behind me, Brock’s dark gaze stares back.

His brow creases in a mockery of sympathy when our eyes meet. “It’s too bad you weren’t there to protect her,” he rasps, squeezing me tighter until my ribs feel as if they might give under the compression.

I choke on a gasp and push against his chest, his arms releasing me easily enough. Collapsing to the floor, I catch my fall on my forearms, and Brock follows me, crouching down and grabbing my chin between his fingers.

“One of these days there’s gonna be no one there to protect you.”

The threat is clear, and it sends a shiver down my spine. But Dr. Strange and Dr. Rogers rush down the hall, toward Gertie’s room. Dr. Rogers’ frantic pace slows, his wide eyes finding my crumpled form and immediately coming to my side.

“Thank you, Mr. Rumlow, you may return to your other duties,” he dismisses, sinking to his knees and taking my arms in his delicate grip.

“Of course, Dr. Rogers,” Brock replies sardonically, standing with a glance to Dr. Strange who quickly disappears into Gertie’s cell. He follows after, with one last sneer thrown over his shoulder in our direction.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Dr. Rogers coaxes quietly, “let’s get you out of here.” He helps me stand, holding me against his chest, and guides me past Gertie’s room.

“Dr. Rogers,” Dr. Strange calls, poking his head out of the room and eying me quickly. “When you have some time, I would like to discuss some matters which have been brought to my attention.”

My doctor straightens, shoulders tensing as he nods brusquely and continues to lead me down the hall. We pass Antoine pushing a hospital gurney toward the room and a few other nurses and orderlies keeping the patients from entering the ward.

Everything around me blurs, colors and faces melding together as we pass hall after hall. The familiar, silent presence of my shadow following behind us on our trek toward Dr. Rogers’ office.

I can’t swallow, can hardly breathe around the lump that chokes my throat. Gertie had done nothing wrong, ever. Her light shining bright despite the oppressive misery clinging to the walls of this godforsaken place. She loved flowers and baking and stories. She was shy, but caring and loving.

And it’s my fault she’s dead.

My knees buckle beneath me, giving out mid-step. Dr. Rogers catches me with a surprised grunt, lifting me into his arms, carrying me like a bride over the threshold to his office. The door closes behind us and I still can’t breathe. Pushing against the doctor’s chest, I struggle to get out of his hold, squirming until he fumbles his grip. Though I fall, he keeps me safe enough, quickly lowering us both to the floor.

I scramble across the floor toward the window, clawing the wood of the frame with my nails, scraping and breaking them in my frantic state. I need the cool, fresh air. I need it to bite into my lungs, to push past this anguish that seeps through me. I need to breathe because I can’t—everything is just _too much_.

Dr. Rogers stand and rushes over, unlatching and pushing the glass wide open. The harsh, frigid air blusters into the room. Papers fly off his desk, a whirring dance of chaos, scattering across the floor. He slowly steps away—keeps his distance like a gaping chasm between us.

James doesn’t, wrapping me in the safety of his embrace, cocooning me against his chest until everything around me is only him. My nails scratch against his forearms, but he shows no sign of pain, only holds me closer, tighter, almost painfully.

A crease forms between Dr. Rogers’ brows, concern flashing in his eyes as he watches us. My body beginning to shake from the cold. James’ heat doing little to combat the bone deep chill.

“James,” he calls softly, admonishment tinting his tone. “She needs space.”

“She needs me,” the brunet man growls, jerking my body away from the doctor, placing himself threateningly between us.

My fingers wrap loosely in the fabric of his shirt, vision blacking in and out, body slumping boneless. His eyes dart over my face, fingers brushing the apples of my cheeks, but I cannot focus, trapped and drifting further and further away from consciousness with each ragged breath.

“James,” Dr. Rogers warns, a step taken in our direction.

But my eyes flutter shut, body giving way to the consuming grief and exhaustion. I plunge into the darkness willingly, listening to the seductive lure of oblivion.

The relief of the quiet hits me and I float.

It’s slow, rising back to the surface, heeding the earnest urging from those whispers which call me back. Voices come first, tones piercing through the haze like needle pricks. Just enough to draw attention, a tether to drag me out of the dark.

“How long has she been in this state?” A soft, vaguely familiar voice inquires.

“Only about two days.” That voice I know, have heard it whisper praises and declarations of love and satisfaction. My solace. My support. My doctor.

“That’s highly concerning, Steve,” the first voice accuses. “I thought you said you could handle her condition on your own.”

“I can, Bruce,” Dr. Rogers insists. “If you just let me stay the course. She needs—”

“And what’s with Barnes. Out of nowhere he’s terrorizing staff and patients because of one woman.” Agitation tinges the tone of the first voice, his volume growing in increments as the discussion continues. “I leave you in charge of the day-to-day operations of this facility. If your judgement is compromised, I’ll have to reevaluate your standing.”

“Dr. Banner.” Dr. Rogers’ voice is clipped, sharp. “With all due respect, my judgement is clear. I am doing what’s best for this hospital and my patient.”

Silence settles around me, the temptation to recede once more growing. A sensation, a touch, possibly, lands on my body, the brush of a breath fanning across my face.

“The last time I saw this woman, her mental state was one of mild distress. And now she’s like this.” There’s a sigh, low and disappointed. Steps echo in the room, retreating from my side.

Dr. Rogers objects, defensive but soft-spoken, “She’ll pull through. She’s processing her grief over the loss of her friend.”

“She’s fucking catatonic, Steve!” his colleague explodes. His anger cuts through me like a knife. His words hang sharp in the air around us. “Dr. Strange has approached me about his concerns regarding the treatment of this patient, as he has approached you. Some orderlies have observed a worsening of her condition, and given her current state, I have no choice but to agree with his assessment.”

“Bruce,” Steve interrupts, voice pleading and rough, warning, “don’t do this.”

Another sigh breaks through the quiet room. “You have one week for her condition to improve.” The other man’s steps retreat further away, the creak of a door opening. “Don’t make me regret this.”

The door clicks a moment later. As soon as it does, steps hurry over, warm hands smoothing up my arms and wrapping around my body. The soft press of lips land on my cheeks, my temple, my forehead, my lips.

“It’s okay, my love. Take the time you need to come back to me. I won’t let them touch you,” Dr. Rogers promises in sweet murmurs against my skin.

Through the haze of my thoughts, my vision begins to clear, movement in the corner of my eye drawing attention, sparking the barest hint of curiosity. The door clicks open once again, though no footsteps accompany the sound.

“We’ll have to be extra careful these next few days,” Dr. Rogers states concisely into the quiet of the room.

Like trudging through molasses, I blink, feeling the motion for the first time in days. Pangs of hunger gnaw at my guts, an ache that pulses into existence and grows violently the more I acknowledge it.

Another set of hands cradle me against a strong, muscled body, cocooning me between my two bastions of protection. James. His hair brushes over my cheek as he rests his head against mine.

“We’ll take care of her,” Dr. Rogers continues adamantly, speaking as if I do not occupy any space.

My chin tilts, just the barest movement, but both men freeze in their position. Dr. Rogers withdraws, taking a penlight from his pocket to examine my pupil responses.

“Thank Christ, sweetheart.” He pulls me close and plants his lips against mine, kissing me with the taste of relief heavy on his tongue.

Reciprocation does not follow on my part, still stuck in the haze that clouds my mind and slows my movements. But the sensations—smell, touch, taste, sight, sound—they trickle back into my awareness. Everything disjointed and jarring, distant yet too close.

The whisper of my name brushes against my ear, chapped lips pressing to my cheek like a balm, James’ grip tightening as his body shakes with silent sobs.

The two men, my last ports in the storm that is this hellhole, dote on me the rest of the day, keeping me tucked between them as hours pass, waiting for the night to fall. We eat our meals in Dr. Rogers’ rickety chairs, huddled together like they might imbue my body with their devotion to keep me warm.

Everything feels so cold, though, a numbing chill. If the window were not wedged shut, I would think the winter wind responsible. Yet I know it is my broken heart and guilty conscience, punishing me for Gertie’s death.

Burning resentment simultaneously coils in my stomach, a displaced anger centered on James and Dr. Rogers, splitting the blame and laying it at each of our feet. If Brock just took what he wanted from me—if James and Dr. Rogers just let him—Gertie would not have been punished—killed—in my stead.

Sleep comes with a sinking dread, anticipation, expectation—dare I say, hope—that my morning will not come. That somehow my soul will be exchanged for my friend’s in the night.

But the harsh light of dawn comes, as it is wont to do.

My gaze does not drift down the hall toward the other cells, the instinct forbidden—I cannot allow it. The bakery and the Day Room offer the same spike of trepidation, that itch beneath my skin that urges me to run in the opposite direction.

Still, James herds me to the decrepit couch facing the dusty window, the sun shining through the glass panes. The sight of flurrying snow does nothing. I watch it fall with apathy, vision blurring with thoughts that take over my consciousness.

My companion does not attempt to draw me into conversation or otherwise divert me. He simply sits beside me, hunched in his protective manner, eyes darting about the room as if cataloging each and every detail that the décor and occupants have to offer, fists flexing all the while.

As the afternoon sun shines through the sky lights, his body stiffens. James does not rise from his position on the couch, though he shifts, blocking my body from the front, caging me into the armrest. Paying the action no mind, I disregard his protective position until my name catches my attention. My mind focuses back into the present moment, hearing the end of the man’s introduction.

“My name is Dr. Strange,” he says, hands folded behind his back, the air of arrogance wafting from him like a foul stench. “As of this moment, I am taking over your care. It is best to get our procedure under way as quickly as possible to minimize your recovery period. If you would follow me?”

My eyes raise slowly to meet his, expression lacking any hint of emotion, unwilling to budge from my spot on the couch. James bares his teeth, a rolling growl rumbling in his chest. But Dr. Strange takes it all in stride, motioning with his hand.

Steps thunder over, five guards and Brock cracking their knuckles, pumping their arms ready for a fight. James sweeps his gaze over them, a deep breath filling his lungs as he presses back against me.

“Mr. Barnes, if you would please get out of the way,” Dr. Strange entreats, though he knows the futility of his request. He waits only a moment before nodding.

The guards descend, snatching at James’ limbs and dragging him bodily to the floor. But my protector doesn’t give in easily. He fights, punching and kicking out at the guards as they grab for their batons.

The one fault in James’ strategy is me, my vulnerability as he fights off the guards. Sitting on the couch, I’m an easy target for Brock and Dr. Strange, the distraction working to give them an opening to snatch me away.

With a grunt, Brock drags me over the arm of the couch and toward the door, Dr. Strange keeping close to wrangle my weakly flailing limbs and protect the other patients around us.

They drag me through the hallways, toward the medical suites and I sag in their arms, too weary to fight and letting the acceptance of the situation wash over me. Part of me even anticipates the memory loss of the electroshock treatment with excitement. Maybe for a little while I will find reprieve from my overwhelming dejection.

The door to the electroshock treatment room looms wide open and we approach, Dr. Strange’s face set with determination.

Brock chuckles low in my ear. “Once we’re done with you, you’ll know exactly where you belong.” And he drags me right past the open doorway, still following Dr. Strange.

A distressed sound echoes in the back of my throat, terror finally spiking in my system. My head swivels toward the door we passed, a question on my lips as we head further down the hallway—straight toward the surgical suite.

“D-Dr. Strange?” I whisper, voice croaking, the heavy weight of my present predicament crashing against me like a wave against a cliff. The severity of the situation jolting me firmly back into my own body. The haze flushed from my mind in an instant, leaving the stark, horrific reality before me.

“Don’t worry, I have one of the steadiest hands in the world. You’ll recover quite well from your lobotomy, I should think,” the doctor assures, pushing open the door to the surgery, the lights shining bright on the dark walls and silver medical equipment.

The soles of my shoes squeak across the floor as I plant my heels, legs stiff as I fight against entering the room. Screams fill my ears, a high pitched never-ending shriek that I belatedly realize spills from my own lips.

Brock grumbles behind me, knocking my knees out with his feet before schlepping me onto the surgical table. His body presses me against unforgiving surface, pinning me down as the restraints jangle and lock.

He grins when we lock gazes, sadistic and satisfied, his cock hardening in his trousers as he presses against me to keep me in place. My stomach lurches, his laugh haunting me as he steps back to observe.

Water runs in the background, Dr. Strange preparing for the procedure by washing up. Another set of light clicking footsteps accompanying him—most likely a nurse.

A tremor takes hold of my limbs, my body shaking involuntarily. My breath sticks to my throat. My gasping gulps, trying to find air to breath, reverberate in the emptiness of the room. But none of them pay attention, save the orderly who waits with merciless anticipation.

Dr. Strange steps beside my bound form, a cap tied over his hair and mask covering his features. Only his clinical, detached eyes gaze down at me, examining my condition like a true scientist would his specimen.

“We’ll start with the gas anesthetic,” he explains with an air of disregard, “once that knocks you out, the procedure will take very little time. All will be better when you wake.” He turns to his nurse, who doesn’t even look at me as she steps beside the doctor. He reaches out for the face mask in her hand, holding it up as he asks, “All ready?”

My head shakes frantically, eyes widening in terror as he lowers the mask over my nose and mouth. I try not to inhale, as much as my lungs scream for air. But I can’t deny my instincts and my first gasping breath fills me with the sedative. My head becomes light, wooziness turning my stomach as my vision starts to blur. My limbs cease their movement, too heavy to lift even a finger. My eyes fall shut and I’m lost to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t hate me for leaving this chapter here. Thank you so much for those of you reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I am truly thankful for all of your support. I’ll get the next chapter out as soon as I can.
> 
> If I missed any tags, _please_ let me know and I’ll add them!
> 
> 💜
> 
> Also, if you want to drop by and say ‘hi’ or wanna have a chat or scream at me, here’s my [Tumblr!](http://foxgloveprincess.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think. Leave a comment or kudos—I love hearing feedback!


End file.
